


In a Cold Climate

by companyofliars



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Character Study, Falling In Love, Feelings, Fix-It, M/M, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 43,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25536859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/companyofliars/pseuds/companyofliars
Summary: The fate of the expedition reimagined – in glimpses over the years stuck in the Arctic and a bit beyond, through Goodsir's and Collins' viewpoints. I wanted to explore what could perhaps have been, if small changes to the story were made along the way, if certain characters spoke more or made slightly different choices etc.This focuses on the relationship between Goodsir and Collins, but it also touches on and explores their relationships with the other characters.
Relationships: Henry Collins/Harry D. S. Goodsir
Comments: 14
Kudos: 43





	1. September 1846

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine the characters in this as mainly a mix of both their tv-series and book counterparts, but I have applied their real ages, family background etc. to some degree.

The first time Collins catches sight of the aurora borealis during the expedition, back in 1845, he tells himself that whatever hardships they may endure on this voyage, whatever lies ahead still, will be worth it. This is a cold world, and the coldness spreads like contagion – although, inside the ship, there is heating, something is lacking in that warmth, some other, indecipherable thing. Everything is sharp in the Arctic, too – the air, the ice, the wind, the commands shouted out. Even the water stings like were it made of blades.

When he goes beneath the surface of the sea and sees it, sees _him_ , something changes. It is difficult to imagine that anything can live in these waters, but the opposite of that should simply be a vast emptiness, not death. Afterwards, when the men have pulled him back up again, up from that desolate place, that deep darkness below, he sits on his bed, head leaned back against the rough wooden planks, and lets his ration of rum burn his tongue. It is a special kind of sensation that the liquor evokes – it is difficult to discern whether it numbs or pains him, where he holds it in his mouth for too long. After a good while, he swallows the liquid. And he does feel numbed, then, little after little – every noise around him sounds like it comes from miles away, as if muddled by water, as if from some other-world entirely.

The soft knock on his door draws him back in, back to this world, this ship, now.

“Yes?”

The door slides open, casting a golden light into the cabin, and Goodsir's face appears.

“I just...goodness – you sit in the dark, Mr Collins?”  
“I...” he feels instantly ashamed, as if he has done some horrible, unspeakable thing. “I'm just tired.”  
“Oh.”

He lights the lamp – whale oil, of all things – and Goodsir seems to take that as a sign to enter the cabin. An awfully polite man, is he – not quite quiet, but thoughtful and respectful, rather. Proper. He looks almost shy, now, as he stands in front of Collins, hands clasped in front of him.

“I- I just wanted to see if everything was alright. I couldn't be there for the dive, I'm afraid – Dr Stanley wanted me to...well... Never mind. I just wanted to ensure...?”

Younger than his years, Collins thinks. There is a curious innocence there, in the surgeon. Collins nods, looking at the man's hands – slender, delicate almost, but there is power there, too, a different kind of power, different to that which most of the men aboard the ship possess. But no less impressive.

“I'm fine, Dr Goodsir” he says, finally, and it sounds as hollow as it is. He cannot meet Goodsir's eyes as he says it, watching instead how the man shifts his weight on his feet.  
“Will you tell me about it?”  
“Why?”

They have spoken here and there. It has already been a long voyage after all. But they do not know each other, not really. He has his own job to tend to, so has Goodsir. They are officers, and friendship has always come easier to the seamen, Collins supposes. Sure, they have shared experiences along the way, talked about this or that, but they come from different backgrounds – common subjects for longer conversations are difficult to come upon.

They are two very different men, Collins thinks, sharing the same space for the sake of...work, he supposes.

But he does like the other man, though, likes his company and whatever little he knows of him.

One morning on deck, they caught first sight of porpoises where the animals broke the surface of the water, maybe twenty yards away. It had been early on in the voyage, and he had wondered if the other man had ever seen porpoises before, from the way his face seemed to glow with enjoyment at the sight. Goodsir had watched the animals carefully, as if he was studying them, as if something from one of his books had finally been conjured up, come alive in the real world.

After a while, he had turned to Collins and smiled, then said, “What a beautiful sight!”

Collins had nodded, quickly, then turned his head away, back to the sea. Then he had felt it, too, this excitement of observing the animals, almost as if it had been his first time at sea also.

“The waters are so alive,” Goodsir had said, “There is a whole world of unknown beauty down there.”

“It fascinates me,” Goodsir says now. He moves to sit down on the bed, next to Collins. “Look, I... I... I didn't just sign up for this to act the surgeon part. I have this hope, and maybe it is folly, but I have this hope that I could lay my eyes on new things, and...and – not just new land, I mean...but new creatures, vegetation. All that life. I am certain that there is so much yet to discover and know. And I want that – to _discover_ , and to _know_.”

He looks hopeful, but there is a hesitancy there, too, as if he expects to be let down, as if that is in line with what usually happens, when he speaks his mind.

Collins has overheard how some of the men aboard speak of Goodsir, when the surgeon is not there to hear.

“There was nothing, Dr Goodsir.”  
“N-nothing?”  
Collins shakes his head. “It was just gradients of darkness and me sinking deeper into it.”  
“You must have seen something? Any sign of life?”

He stands up quickly, suddenly short of breath, as if he were still wearing his heavy helmet.

“I... I...”

And he wants to tell him, he thinks, but how can he, and what difference will it make, other than to perhaps unduly cause concern to Goodsir as well. He wants to tell him, and he almost does, but he cannot breathe – it feels as if the air-supply of his diving helmet has been cut off, or perhaps the tube is bent somehow, he feels himself start to panic again, feels the chill of the water, the sharpness of the ice, the claustrophobia of being lost in the depths of the sea – sinking, sinking, sinking into deep darkness, into nothingness.

His eyes tightly shut, he feels Goodsir's hands on him rather that sees the motion of the other man – a warmth on either shoulder, turning him, pressing him to sit down on his bed once again, the thin mattress soft beneath him. When he opens his eyes, dizzy, Goodsir's face is there, clear among all the shadows, inches from his own, whispering something indiscernible, as he kneels on the floor in front of Collins.

It is only later, when his breathing has returned to normal, that he realises how tight he is clutching Goodsir's arms. He lets go abruptly, as if burned from a sudden heat, and leans back against the wall, closing his eyes.

For a moment, they both simply sit there, in the quiet of the cabin. Voices can be heard from somewhere outside as men prepare for the night, but the sounds from the other side of the walls are not quite loud enough to drown out the sound of their breaths. Collins wonders if anyone has heard them, him, but he is too drained of energy to really care. He cannot even bring himself to be properly embarrassed that Goodsir watched his fit of terror.

He feels tentative fingers on his knee, then an entire hand. Although it is a light touch, it weighs heavy, seeps beneath the surface of his clothes, of his skin, into his bones, and somewhere deeper. It settles there.

He always thought of a surgeon's hands much like a butcher's – but he is beginning, perhaps, to understand the difference.

There is a healing power to Goodsir's hands.

“When I was tending to David Young,” Goodsir begins, hand still in place, “There was something...odd at play. Something transpired as – as he passed.”

Collins leans forward, once again, attempting to signal for the other man to continue, to show that he is in fact listening. But he cannot yet bring himself to meet Goodsir's eyes.

“He was seeing something that I could not see. I do not mean a delirium, from fever or other kinds of maladies, which can happen – but something else entire. I was trying to get him to calm down, but he would not listen to me – whatever it was that he saw, or _felt_ , it was stronger in its presence than I. I... I do not think that he was aware of my being there at that point, even. He passed, like that, a-alone and afraid, with whatever was in the room, which was not me. I have rarely felt so hopeless. And then Dr Stanley had me...cut him open.”

He is a small man, is Goodsir, and he looks even smaller now, still kneeling on the floor, fingers on Collins' knee slightly trembling as if it is the surgeon himself, and not Collins, who needs calming down.

He is uncertain why he does it, but he does reach out, then, covering Goodsir's hand with his own.

And he wonders if this is what it feels like to reassure someone – not quite giving something of oneself away, but rather sharing a part of oneself freely with another person, and wanting to.

“I saw Billy Orren down there. Frozen like...if he were still reaching out for me to save him, suspended in that dark there, trapped. I have never known fear like that. I couldn't take it. And so I pulled on the rope and I...left him there.”  
“What else could you have done?”  
“I could have-”  
“There was nothing else you could have done.”  
“He was so alone... I abandoned him, in that desolate darkness.”

He watches Goodsir's eyes for judgement, but there is none. Instead, tears seem to have formed, but are not yet spilling.

“Oh... Now I have made you miserable, too.”  
“Do not ever think that.”  
“I... I do not usually break like this. I am not...”  
“I know.”

Goodsir looks sincere, wiping his eyes with the back of his free hand.

“I always thought you were a brave man, for donning that diving suit. It takes courage, I imagine. Power.”  
“There are many types of power.”

He takes Goodsir's hand in both of his, examining it. Goodsir lets him. It is different from his own, no calluses, the skin softer, no scars. He knows the kind of tools a surgeon uses, has seen them, heard them put to use even, and he has always thought them brutal. He has always thought the same of the hands yielding them. But this... A surgeon needs steady hands, careful, able. Caring.

“Many types of courage too, I imagine,” Goodsir adds, and it hangs in the air of the cabin for a while as they look at one another.

“You're not alone, in any of this, Mr Collins. I promise you.”

It is strange, Collins later muses, how secluded they had felt, at that time, as if nothing but them existed.

A loud knock on the cabin door brings them out of whatever place they seem to have gone, however, back to the ship, this cabin, in which they have been for far too long.

“Just a minute,” Collins says, as they both stand up hurriedly, stepping apart in the small cabin. 

Judging by the sounds from outside, whoever is out there does not walk away, only steps back slightly. It feels strange, to be in a sort of panic over nothing, but he can read it in Goodsir's face too – that something, rather than nothing, had been interrupted. Unsure of whether it will make the situation worse or better, he decides to snuff out the light, effectively casting the small cabin in darkness again. There is a slight shuffle, in which Goodsir steps aside, away from the direct line of sight from the door, and Collins steps in front of it.

As he slides the door halfway open, he comes face to face with Dr Stanley.

“Yes, sir?”

The man regards him with a closed-off expression, impossible to read.

“I need Mr Goodsir to take over in the sick bay.”  
“Pardon, Dr Stanley, I don't-”  
“Oh, spare me.”

Dr Stanley walks off, then, towards his own cabin, and Collins slides the door closed again. He can barely see Goodsir.

“There is not even anybody there – in the sick bay, I mean.”  
“I could... I could join you.”  
“You have had quite a day – you need sleep, rather. Do you think you will be able to?”  
“Yes.”

He does feel the tiredness overcome him, now that they speak of it. Exhaustion, almost. But it is mixed in with something else, something which he cannot recognise or determine, but it seems to pull him in the other direction, away from sleep.

“Good. Look-”  
“I went into the Channel once, when I trained the diving.”  
“P-pardon?”  
“I could tell you about it, sometime, is all, if you'd like.”

In the lack of light, he cannot see that Goodsir is smiling, but he can hear it clearly in his voice.

“I would like that very much.”  
“Good.”  
“Goodnight, Mr Collins.”

He steps aside to let Goodsir out of the cabin. Most of the men have settled in their cabins or quarters by now, the ship quiet.

Goodsir turns around to look at him and his features are warm, bathed in the low light outside the row of cabins. Soft, Collins realises, as he watches the other man walk towards the sick bay – Goodsir's features are soft, in this world that is anything but.

He falls asleep the moment he lays his head on the pillow.


	2. May 1845

On the third day of the voyage, their first patient arrives in the sick bay, carried in by two of his friends. David Young, one of the ship's boys, has, apparently, a bad bout of seasickness.

Dr Stanley, Goodsir's superior – in title, if in no other sense, Goodsir muses – is profoundly angry with the young man.

“Why did you join this voyage, if you are prone to seasickness, for Heaven's sake?”

Young is holding a bucket in his hands, unbalanced, almost unable to sit up.

“I did not know, sir. I am sorry.”  
“It is a waste of everybody's time – Sir Franklin's, mine...”  
“I truly am sorry, sir.”

Goodsir hands the poor young man a dampened cloth and the other takes it with trembling hands.

“It will pass,” he says calmly, “It is just your body reacting to the new environment – the...the motions of the ship across the water. It will pass over time.”  
Young looks up at him. “You think so?”  
“Yes. B-but you should rest for now, if you can. We will watch you for a little while, keep an eye on you until you feel better.”  
“Correction: Mr Goodsir will – I will not. I have rather more pressing matters to attend to.”

Goodsir does not turn around to watch Dr Stanley leave, only hears the shuffle by the door.

“I am sorry for the trouble,” Young says again.  
“Don't be. It can happen to anyone. I myself have not been to sea much ever in my life. This is my first time on a proper ship. So I, too, need to find my sea legs. There...there are so many new things to learn about here, to take in.”

Young is looking at him expectantly, genuinely wanting to hear more, or perhaps simply glad for the distraction.

“H-how it all works, I mean – the daily routines, the fret of getting to know who is who, and the sudden lack of privacy. But this expedition affords us so much wonder – and already, too. You must have seen the sunrise across the sea, surely? It only gets better from here. I have heard of the vistas up there, in the Arctic – a landscape of glimmering snow, blue and white and silver in colour, icebergs as tall as buildings, seals and bears and other creatures that one can scarcely imagine, and the stars quite clear against the backdrop of the dark night sky-”  
“And the northern lights, too,” someone supplies from behind him.

Goodsir turns around and looks to the doorway. Erebus' Second Master – the sturdy-looking one, who has the slightest of gaps between his two front teeth – is leaning against the frame. Goodsir is ashamed to realise that he cannot remember the man's name.

“Northern lights?” Young asks.

The man joins Goodsir by Young's bed.

“Yes, David, the northern lights – an amazing display of lights across the sky, in varying colours – shimmering, and in motion, dancing somehow – almost as if the sea and its waves were reflected in the sky. A true natural wonder.”  
“I get to see that, Mr Collins?”  
“Yes. And do trust Dr Goodsir – this is only a bout of seasickness. Eventually, you might feel so accustomed to the movements of the sea that it will feel normal here and then strange once we get back onto land.”  
“Really, sir?”  
“Yes. I promise you – I may not be a doctor, but I do know that it is quite common to feel as you do, when at sea for the first time.”  
“Thank you. Thank you, sir.”

Young sounds relieved. Perhaps the worst of his sickness has passed already, although it may just be that he is, by now, so tired that there is no energy left in him. He closes his eyes, as if to go to sleep.

“I just wanted to check that he was alright,” whispers Collins.  
“He – he will be now, I think.”  
“His friends were rather worried.”

They move away from Young, who seems to have fallen asleep already, snoring slightly, so as to not disturb him.

“And you were, too – worried, that is?”  
“Yes. He... Well, I feel a responsibility for him, for all of them, really. But especially for those who have not been to sea before.”

Goodsir nods, smiles up at the other man and is rewarded with a smile in return. Collins' eyes are warm, honest – Goodsir remembers him from when he first boarded the ship.

He holds his gaze.

“Good.”

Then there are footsteps, and Dr Stanley's sour face appears in the doorway.

“Good Lord, what is happening now, has this become some sort of rendezvous point?”

Goodsir looks back and forth between Dr Stanley and Collins. He does not understand why someone like Dr Stanley has joined the expedition – he certainly does not seem like he wants to be here. And where Collins, standing close to Goodsir, is emitting warmth, Dr Stanley is the opposite – a cold man, always, withdrawn, detached.

“I was simply following up on David Young – Dr Goodsir has been kind enough to-”  
“ _Mr_ Goodsir,” Dr Stanley interjects.

Collins does not respond to the other man, simply turns away from him and back to Goodsir once more, their eyes meeting again.

A dozen seconds pass, then Collins says, “Thank you, Dr Goodsir. I... I better get back up.”

Goodsir watches him leave, smiling, and, in his peripheral vision, he is aware that Dr Stanley is, in turn, watching him. Young is sleeping peacefully, unaware of anything that has been happening around him – some sort of display of...what? Goodsir is uncertain.

“I brought you some tea,” Dr Stanley says eventually, nodding towards the two cups on his desk.

Goodsir carries his own chair across the sick bay and joins Dr Stanley at the desk. The other man says nothing else, and Goodsir feels awkward sitting there next to him.

He drinks his tea, listening to David Young's slight snores.


	3. July 1845

In Greenland are the dogs – great, magnificent beasts, skilled at dragging sledges over snow and ice, and very much part of a pack rather than an animal kept as a pet. Collins admires them, their strength and endurance.

Although it is summer, and the dogs here are mostly put to work during the winter, the men are still offered a display of their power.

Collins and Mr Blanky as well as Lieutenants Little and Hodgson, who all show special interest in the sled dogs, are even invited on a small sledge party, whilst the ships are docked in Disko Bay.

They sit on their assigned sledges, watching the dogs easily traverse the frozen terrain, tails wagging from the sheer joy of the work. The journey leads them along the coastline, going north. Mr Blanky translates for them, always cheerful, always respectful of the natives.

There is a whole other world up here, Collins thinks – so many different ways of living, of adapting to environments. He wishes that he has the capacity to take it all in, understand it all, so that this other way of life may be not only remembered, but appreciated in full.

He feels very small, too, coming here – in a way that one rarely does aboard a ship, where there is limited space. Lieutenant Little remarks on it, too – the grand scale of it all, and how insignificant they seem.

It humbles them all, Collins thinks, even someone as experienced as Mr Blanky.

By the time they make camp for dinner and get comfortable around a small fire, they are offered fresh seal meat – raw and bloody and fat. Blanky laughs at the looks on their faces, once they chew the tough meat.

“You better get used to it, gentlemen,” he says, “Just in case.”  
“It is certainly...different,” responds Lieutenant Little. He frequently wears the expression of someone who is rather worried, even when there is not much to worry about, but in this moment, he is smiling openly, honestly, at his own inadequate attempt at politely describing the meal.  
“You prefer the tinned beef stew?”  
“Any day.”  
“Hear, hear!”  
“And you, Mr Collins?”  
“I just worry how my stomach will react to this stuff.”  
“Ah, it should be fine.”

Mr Blanky lights his pipe and puffs out large volumes of smoke. It is a mild evening. Peaceful. Collins thinks that he will remember everything about this day – the sights, the sounds, the taste of the raw meat – for the rest of his life.

When, late that evening, they are delivered back to the ships, one of the more feral dogs, who has not been part of the sledge party and runs around tied up near the building where the dogs are provided shelter in foul weather, snaps at Lieutenant Hodgson. The man pulls back, shocked, and the sound of something – teeth – tearing through fabric can be easily heard.

“Damn animal!” Hodgson shouts from a safe distance.  
“Did it draw blood?”  
“I don't know yet. Feels like it. This cannot be happening – I play the clavier back home.”

There is a hole torn in his glove, only just visible from where he presses the affected hand against his chest. But there is no trace of blood in the snow or on his clothes.

“You might have been lucky,” Lieutenant Little says.

Hodgson looks as them as if they have gone mad.

“Lucky? Attacked by a savage beast like that?”  
Collins sighs. “Well, get one of the surgeons to take a look at it, sir.”  
“Yes. I must. Blasted.”

Little looks to Collins, shaking his head as Hodgson walks ahead of them.

“He strongly dislikes the sick bay,” Little explains.  
“They are hardly going to amputate that, sir.”  
“No, but the chance is not zero, is it?”

Collins shrugs. Lieutenant Hodgson comes from a very different environment than his own, back home, he has to remind himself. It is barely a scratch.

“The surgeons are skilled. As far as I can discern.”  
“They are – or else they would not be here. And to think – three of them hail from the same place!”  
“Really?”  
“Yes, our Drs Peddie and MacDonald, as well as your Dr Goodsir – all educated in Edinburgh.”  
“And Dr Stanley?”  
“Not certain – through he has been in the navy for some time.”  
“He is...well, a peculiar individual, is what I think you would refer to him as, sir.”  
“I can imagine that. I have looked at him a few times and wondered. Then again – who is to say what people think when they look at me?”  
“I choose not to comment on that, Lieutenant Little.”  
“Wise, Mr Collins, wise. But maybe he is simply bored – Dr Stanley, I mean.”  
“I don't know. He is not very pleasant towards his assistant surgeon, though.”  
“That makes no sense. Who can look at Dr Goodsir and dislike him?”  
“Dr Stanley, apparently.”  
“Maybe it is simply that he is jealous of Dr Goodsir's likeability.”  
“Maybe.”  
“It bothers you, the way he treats his assistant?”  
“Yes. It is wholly unfounded.”

Lieutenant Little nods, then sighs.

“It does say a lot about a man, how he treats those serving under him.”  
“Indeed.”

They stop in front of Erebus. In two days, they will set off across Baffin Bay towards Lancaster Sound. There will be little time for talks like this, then, but the time in Greenland has been well spent.

They are conditioned, now, to the cold, Collins thinks, to this environment.

Far behind him, the howling of the dogs can be heard, when Collins finally enters the ship. A most haunting noise – as if they are calling out to someone across the stretch of ice.


	4. September 1846

There is a saltiness in the air, from the sea, even so far north as they are, where everything freezes around them. It feels nostalgic to Goodsir, in spite of the cold, reminds him of summers back home, the seaside, his family. Sometimes, in quieter moments, he thinks of them, of what they could possibly be doing – simple acts, like sitting down for tea or taking a stroll down to the harbour. He imagines them thinking about him too. He wants to make them proud.

He does not feel homesickness, per se. There is too much to do aboard the ship, too much to take part in, observe, learn. Sometimes, he has difficulty sleeping for all the thoughts that pass through his mind all at once.

Tonight is different, though. He cannot fall asleep, but it is not for a myriad of thoughts passing through his mind – there is only one thought, now, one notion: it feels as if the ship has stopped moving. Maybe he has simply gotten used to it by now, life at sea, they way he never was before this voyage, but he does not truly believe so.

From the nearby cabins, he can hear men snoring, limbs accidentally hitting the walls as they turn over in their bunks. But the sea sounds different now, less noisy. The ship is without its usual rocking from the waves.

Slowly, he gets up, out of bed, dresses.

Tom Hartnell greets him on the upper deck.

“Shouldn't you be asleep, Dr Goodsir?”  
“Y-yes. I just wanted to see...”

He gestures to the open water, and even in the low light of the night, he can see the uniformity of its whiteness now. What had before been separate flakes and bergs of ice, bopping up and down in a dark-blue deep, is now a smothering blanket of solid white, holding the ship at a standstill. His breath comes out as a white cloud, and he imagines that he can see tiny snowflakes forming in it.

He stands at the bow and looks across the massive, shimmering terrain of solid ice.

With the sea now muted, it is quite easy to hear the footsteps approaching. At first, he thinks it is Hartnell, who has chosen to join him at the bow of the ship, but when he turns to look, it is instead Collins. They stand shoulder to shoulder, watching the unmoving mass beneath and in front of them. Up ahead, somewhere, is Terror, as locked in as they.

“This is not good, is it?”  
“Well, that depends... But – no. This was not the plan, I think it is fair to admit that.” For a moment, Collins is silent, seems to consider something. Then he continues, “Looks like we will be celebrating Christmas here. You can prepare for that, I suppose.”

He makes a small movement, pushing his shoulder against Goodsir's briefly.

“Good Lord!”

A chill runs through him, at the thought.

“Are you cold? How long have you been up here?”  
“A few minutes, before you arrived. Why did you come up?”  
“Ship stopped moving.”

At least it is reassuring to know that Collins woke by the same notion of stillness that kept Goodsir awake.

Around them, the air is fresh. Goodsir imagines that he can almost taste it as he inhales deeply. He used to think of air as a kind of nothingness, but during this voyage, he has learned that it is not – the air is almost like an entity, all on its own, ever changing. Something, not nothing.

The cold gets deep down into his lungs, now, as he breathes, almost making him cough by reflex.

So this will be the place, then, home away from home for the rest of the year. He wonders if animals will brave the ice here, if there will be anything new to observe against this backdrop of white.

“You should go back inside; in fact, we both should.”  
“I cannot sleep. Not now, especially.”

Collins turns to him. The cold does not seem to affect him much yet, or maybe he just carries it better.

“It will be alright.”  
“I... Will the ships withstand it?”  
“They're solid ships.”

They are going to spent Christmas here. Goodsir in unsure why that thought unnerves him – it is not as if he spent the last Christmas at home. In fact, it had been rather fun last year – it had made the notion that they were on a great adventure more absolute somehow. They had all been in great spirits, singing and eating a mock version of a Christmas dinner. And before that, they had been out in the snow, where a large number of the men had engaged in a proper snowball fight. Goodsir had stood back, away from it, but watched nonetheless, and he had felt warm from the sheer joy of watching it unfold.

From somewhere across the ice, a sound emerges, almost like the growl of a dog coming in towards them from afar. Goodsir starts, head instinctively turning towards the direction of the sound. He cannot see anything except an odd white darkness. Beside him, Collins is peering into his spyglass. Goodsir looks back, to see if Hartnell or another man on duty have heard anything, but they do not appear to have done so.

“Do – do you see anything?”  
“Afraid not.”  
“It might be a bear. Imagine!”  
“Awfully quick for a bear to be this far out on the ice. It only just froze to completion this night. It is probably nothing.”

Collins lowers the spyglass, and, when he catches sight of Goodsir's expression, offers the spyglass to him. Goodsir takes it, carefully.

“Do not press it up against your skin,” he instructs.

Goodsir nods. He does not know what he expects, but the view through the spyglass affords him nothing more than what Collins has already told him. There is nothing to see, except for the ice and its blend into the horizon and night sky. He sighs – whether from relief or disappointment, he cannot tell.

He makes to hand the instrument back to Collins, but instead of taking it, the other man simply places his own gloved hand half on top of Goodsir's.

“If I may,” he says, and moves the spyglass up, points it towards the sky before letting go again. When Goodsir looks at him, he nods towards the spyglass. Goodsir moves to take a look again. This time, he sees the bright scatter of stars across the sky, they way they seem to twinkle in the frosty air.

He has had the pleasure of observing the stars before, back home, and in a real observatory – an experience afforded by a friend of a friend whose name escapes him now.

The stars had been clearer then, viewed through a real sky telescope, after sitting through a one-on-one lecture of the constellations beforehand. But this is different – this is better somehow, if simpler.

As he turns slightly, the Milky Way comes into his field of vision properly, and he feels suddenly very small and unimportant, remembering the vastness of the galaxy wrapping around him. It sends a shiver through his body.

“Are you certain that you are not cold?” Collins whispers, “It is only that you...” He seems to abandon the sentence, but Goodsir can feel him stepping slightly closer to him, offering up, perhaps, some of his own warmth. 

The kindness of the other man alone is enough to make Goodsir feel a bit warmer.

“It is...overwhelming.”

His own voice is a low whisper too, as if they are sharing between them some great secret that none of the other men still up must be made aware of.

Perhaps they are.

He holds the spyglass in place and moves his head away from it and without further prompt, Collins slowly leans in to share the same view of the stars. His breath is warm against Goodsir's cheek. When Collins pulls back again, Goodsir lowers the glass with the knowledge that no one else can ever see the exact same stretch of stars from this place – a view exclusively claimed by Collins and himself.

There is something beautiful about that, he thinks.

“It will be alright,” Collins says.  
“You cannot know.”  
“No. No, but we... We cannot change the course of nature.”

Collins takes back the spyglass, puts it away inside his coat. He looks awfully calm for someone acknowledging that they are, in fact, trapped.

Goodsir realises how little he knows of the man in terms of personal information – realises that it is perhaps different for someone like Collins, who isn't an outsider taking part in this voyage, who hasn't got another position to return to back home. This is Collins' life – what he does. Collins is used to other kinds of uncertainties than Goodsir.

He has seen the man at work, many times by now, the confident orders juxtaposed against what seems to be an honest care for the men.

Back on Beechey Island, he once observed Collins patiently teach one of the men what appeared to be a particularly difficult knot to tie, going through the twists and turns of it again and again until the other man seemed to finally get it. Goodsir had been up high on the rocks, looking for species for his microscope, and they had not seen him, from where he had been watching them.

He had known, even before then, that Collins was more than simply bulk and muscle.

He appreciates the man for it.

Collins is not an outsider, like Goodsir himself. And yet, he seems different from the rest of the crew aboard.

Collins is looking at him, now, with an inquisitive expression. “Dr Goodsir?”  
“Harry. Please. I would like for you t-to call me Harry. That is if – if you do not mind.”  
“Of course not!”

Yes, he thinks, there is a secret there, in between them, hanging in the fresh Arctic air, but it is out of their grasp somehow, too. Collins looks back over his shoulders, then, apparently satisfied, steps in closer until their puffs of breath seem to mingle between them.

“And I am Henry.”

Goodsir nods. It starts to snow, then, and out from across the white plains of the ice, that haunting animal-like sound appears again. This time, though, neither man turn his head towards it.

“We should get some sleep, while we can. Tomorrow will be a strange day for all.”

When they make to get back inside, it it not Hartnell, but Bryant, that they pass. Goodsir smiles politely as they walk by him, but Bryant's face seems as if frozen in some guarded, cold expression – one that Goodsir cannot read.


	5. August 1845

“When you're down there,” Captain Fitzjames says, matter-of-factly, could you please fill this, too, Mr Collins? If you see any animals, try to catch them, please.”  
“Sir.” Collins nods and takes hold of the bucket.  
“It's for Dr Goodsir,” Captain Fitzjames supplies, seeming almost embarrassed once he has realised how odd the request must have sounded, “He has a keen interest in those things.”  
“Of course.”

Collins has seen the surgeon sit by his microscope a few times by now since they set sail some months ago, although he has not had much reason for visiting the sick bay. As far as he has been able to discern, it is Goodsir's first time at sea, and the man seems to want to make as much of it as possible.

Collins is not really going full under this time – merely attending to a slight possible damage on the starboard side of Erebus just below the surface of the water, from their time in Greenland. Nevertheless, he picks up the bucket and brings it with him, even decides to tie a rope to it so that he can sink it far down in the water, well below the surface, to where any small, odd creatures may hide.

There is only superficial damage evident on the side of Erebus, and certainly, nothing that needs further tending to. He does not ask to be pulled back up immediately, though. Instead, he spends some time surveying the water for any beings that could potentially be of interest to Goodsir, and he eventually manages to catch a sea nettle – the kind that looks like one's bare hands should not come into contact with it for fear of its sting.

The waves brush lively against the side of the ship as he is hoisted back up, the splash of water slightly cold against him.

He feels very much alive.

Once he is back aboard the deck of Erebus, he is unsure of what to do with the odd-looking creature in the bucket, however. Captain Fitzjames is nowhere to be seen, and maybe he had not really meant the request, maybe it had been an odd attempt at humour. But why even bring out the bucket then?

He feels his curiosity overtake him after a little while, of what Goodsir might say of the blubber floating around in the bucket, and, although he barely knows the man, he decides to deliver the creature himself in lieu of Captain Fitzjames.

He knocks twice before entering through the open door of the sick bay, and is greeted by the sight of Dr Stanley looking up from a book.

“Ah, Mr Collins,” Dr Stanley says, putting down his book, “What brings you here?”  
“I was looking for Dr Goodsir, sir.”  
“Oh.”  
“I am not unwell.”  
“That is good to hear, Mr Collins. Have a seat, I am certain that Mr Goodsir will be back shortly.”

As he sits in the opposite corner of the room, by the desk which he supposes belongs to Goodsir – judging by the titles of the books that lay in a neat stack atop of it – he can feel Dr Stanley's eyes on him. He wonders if he is being medically assessed, somehow, or if it is instead the bucket that draws Dr Stanley's attention. Perhaps he should have explained his visit better.

On the table, next to the books, are a few trinkets – a brass figurine of four monkeys, each one covering a different part of their anatomy, a pressed flower in a frame, and a small box made of dark, carved wood. There is also a set of drawings of some sort of critter that Collins cannot identify and does not recognise the Latin name of.

When Goodsir arrives, after only a few minutes of waiting, Collins feel strangely ridiculous. The surgeon looks at him with a kind smile, his eyes curious, as he walks toward his own desk.

“Dr Goodsir, I... Erm. I...found this and I thought of you. I mean, I thought that maybe you would appreciate it for its...”

By now, Goodsir is close enough to peer into the bucket. Collins watches his eyes light up with joy.

“How extraordinary! Thank you, Mr Collins.”  
“I think it might sting.”  
“Oh, it certainly will! I – I once – I once swam into one, face first. Imagine!”

Goodsir is kneeling in front of the bucket, laughing. There is something almost child-like in his joy, Collins thinks. His smile is infectious, as he looks back up at Collins, clearly and sincerely thankful. Behind him, and out of the periphery of Collins' vision, Dr Stanley is still looking their way.

“I-”  
“It cannot be kept down here, take it up onto the upper deck,” Dr Stanley says.

For a fraction of a second, Goodsir's smile falters. Collins reaches out and claps him on the shoulder.

“Come, we can take it up into the daylight. Might be easier to examine it properly too, then.”

Goodsir nods and goes to look among his books, pulls one out of the stack. Collins grabs hold of the bucket.

As they pass Dr Stanley, a large wave conveniently crashes against the side Erebus. Collins has worked on ships for as long as he can remember – he knows how to not be put off balance. Yet, for some reason, he pretends to over-balance slightly, pouring a bit of seawater onto Dr Stanley's shoes.

“Oh, I am awfully sorry, sir,” he says, then quickly follows Goodsir out of the sick bay and up the stairs.

He is called away from the sea nettle and Goodsir's inquisitive eyes shortly after, but for the rest of the day, as he goes about his job, he catches sight of Goodsir here and there, examining and measuring the blubber with great care, and drawing several images of it in a note book.


	6. January 1846

Within a short span of time, the number of graves on Beechey Island go from one to two. Although buried in the vicinity of one another, each grave seems to stand alone, desolate, somehow – monuments, Goodsir thinks, that represent not only the lives of the men, but also the failure on his behalf, his failure to protect them or save them.

Dr MacDonald says that he should not let it affect him, but it does, and Goodsir knows that MacDonald is affected too, although he hides it better. Dr Stanley is the only one of them who seems to carry on as if nothing has happened.

In fact, it feels as if Dr Stanley is not doing his part of the work, in the sick bay or anywhere else on the ship. And Goodsir has noticed the way the other man refuses to address him as “doctor”. It matters, to Goodsir, who has studied and trained to earn his title, just like Drs Peddie and MacDonald has.

Of course, Goodsir is not here for the glory of it all, far from it, but to learn and discover – to better himself ultimately for the betterment of others – but the cold dismissiveness of his direct superior still hurts.

“I don't understand it,” his brother John says to him, when Goodsir first tells him of his decision to join the expedition.  
“You do not have to. It is my own decision.”  
“Still... I want to ascertain that you understand exactly what you have signed up for. It is a life very different to the one you are living now. Much less secure.”

Goodsir thinks of the adventure, of the potential discoveries – of what he might see of the world, and learn. He thinks of all the as of yet unknown knowledge there is still out there, so many secrets of all living things.

“I am aware of that.”  
“And what of your position at the museum?”  
“I- I shall return to it, I hope. Unless I become so keen on practising that I shall rather return and do that, instead, full-time. Imagine! But I do want to go – it is my chance to do something _great_ , John.”  
“Are you willing to risk everything, for that chance – even if it be your life?”  
“Hopefully it shall not come to that. But, in that case, yes.”  
“I am not.”  
“Which is why you are not going.”  
“No, I mean to say, I am not willing to risk _your_ life. That is why I am opposing you. Is there any way to get out of it by now?”

Goodsir looks at his brother – taller, wiser, and a well-known name in scientific journals and societies already. Goodsir is not his mirror image, not even close to it. They share the same colour of hair and the same love of science and nature. But they are different people.

“You cannot stop me, John. There is so much out there, waiting to be discovered.”  
“You risk all that potential, Harry, by going on an expedition like this. All that intellect and brightness, which you possess. If you want to make something of yourself, for the betterment of others, then _stay here_ , where you already are, and _work_ , as you already are doing. Whatever you believe to be out there, waiting for you, is not worth it.”  
“You cannot know that.”  
“No.”

They are sitting in Goodsir's room – John on the chair by the desk and Goodsir himself cross-legged on the bed. The mattress and blankets are soft beneath him. Next to him, purring steadily, is their cat.

There is a sorrow to John's voice, almost as if he is mourning the loss of his younger brother already, as if Goodsir has told him that he plans to travel into a vast, unknown land never to return.

And that is not the case.

Still, he knows of the risk. Accepts it – after all, in the larger picture, when it comes to it, he is just one small, insignificant life.

“My... My will was made today – a necessity, when going on that kind of voyage. I leave everything to you.”  
“Good Lord, Harry – don't say things like that.”  
“I trust that you will-”  
“Enough! Christ...” John says, then sighs, “I will miss you terribly, you know.”  
“I do know. You will be the only one to do so.”  
“That's hardly the truth.”

They laugh, and the noise of their joint laughter awakens the cat next to him. She stretches delightfully, front paws up against Goodsir's left thigh, before climbing into his lap to settle there once more. Her fur is soft and warm, as Goodsir runs the palm of his hand across it.

“Do you know,” he asks, voice almost too quiet, “It is strange how, in all my happiness here, I still feel incomplete, like there is more for me out there somewhere? I would rather, at some point, regret going on the expedition, than, later – old and decrepit – regret not ever going, not ever taking that chance.”

“They will be happy to have you,” John says, “And not only for your surgical skills.”

John Hartnell's death comes as a surprise to them. Where John Torrington has been coughing and wheezing throughout most of the month of December, before finally succumbing to his pneumonia, Hartnell had been on the mend from his damaged eye. Goodsir and Dr MacDonald had examined it daily, and they had found no sign of infection neither in the bulb of the eye nor in the surrounding tissue.

On the fourth of January, however, Hartnell keels over and does not regain consciousness. It takes a great amount of men to keep away the mourning brother and friends, once Sir Franklin has ordered an autopsy to be undertaken.

Goodsir can hear the men shouting outside the sick bay, he can hear Thomas Hartnell, begging them not to cut open his brother, and, even later, once he is alone in his own cabin, chasing sleep, he can still hear all their pained voices in his head.

What Sir John is most afraid of, it seems, is scurvy. Consumption, too, is an overlying fear, but Hartnell showed no classical symptoms of it as far as Goodsir is aware.

He can feel Dr Stanley's eyes on him. The man says nothing, he does not need to, his mere presence is enough to make Goodsir feel inferior. Strange, how people can have such power over you, he thinks, and begins his incision.

“Why do you do it like that? That is not the proper way.”

He looks up and catches Dr Stanley's nod towards the body on the table.

“Pardon?” Goodsir says, “L-like what?”  
“It's upside-down, the incision, isn't it?”

Goodsir looks at his work. He sees nothing wrong.

“That's the way I was taught to do it,” he says, “I prefer to stick to what I am familiar with r-rather than to experiment out here.”

Dr Stanley says no more, but shakes his head.

Goodsir and, by some extension, Stanley, find nothing wrong with the bowels of Hartnell nor his stomach or liver. The heart, too, is unremarkable. His lungs show, however, signs of scarring. Goodsir is examining them when the voice of Captain Fitzjames travels along the hallway outside and into the room. 

With astonishing dexterity, Dr Stanley takes the lung from Goodsir's hands and holds it up against the light, as if they had not examined it once already.

Just as Captain Fitzjames knocks on the open door, Dr Stanley loudly announces, “Thank you for your assistance, Mr Goodsir, I can manage well on my own from now. You may go,” before theatrically turning and clearly feigning surprise, “Ah, Captain Fitzjames, what impeccable timing!”

Goodsir sighs and dries his hands on a cloth next to the instruments.

“Any conclusions?” Captain Fitzjames asks and scrunches up his nose, evidently not accustomed to the smells pertaining to the surgical specialty. Goodsir cannot help but respect the man for joining them in here anyway.

He nods his goodbye to Captain Fitzjames and goes to wash off the blood and fluids sticking to his hands. Behind him, he can hear Dr Stanley laughing awkwardly, a hollow sound. Such different characters, the two of them back there in the sick bay, he thinks.

Although unlikely to become friends if they had met anywhere else but here, Goodsir does consider the Captain almost a friend of his, ranks be ignored. Fitzjames has joined him frequently enough by the microscope, shown a keen interest in the small creatures of the sea.

Before the waters froze, Fitzjames had even arranged what he called _an afternoon of sea studies_ , for the rest of the officers to join in on. It had been a great success. Lieutenants Gore, Les Vesconte, and Fairholme, as well as Second Mate De Voeux, Ice Master Reid, Second Master Collins, plus Osmer, the Purser, had all joined Captain Fitzjames and Goodsir, who taught them of the animals that they were likely to come upon, and instructed them in the use of the microscope, before nets had been cast to collect a varied representation of animals and seaweeds. 

But that had been back in 1845, when the sea was not yet frozen, and when the endless dark did not stretch on. Back in 1845, when they had not yet lost a single man.

Goodsir stands at the bow of the ship and looks towards Beechey Island. He knows where the two graves are, although he cannot see them through the dark.

Hopefully, they will soon be able to sail on from here. The place feels tainted, now, somehow, with the graves there.

He can feel the wind pick up again all around him, and he thinks back to Edinburgh in the wintertime – the city covered in snow, icicles hanging from the trees and the windows and the street lamps, the latter which burn a deep yellow colour, turning the overall impression of the city into something warm, even.

Perhaps it had been a good life, back there, he tells himself – and perhaps, over time, it would have been sufficient, _enough_ , would have made him happy even.

But the regret of going on this expedition does not come, as he expects it to, not even now. At least he has that to cling onto.


	7. December 1845

Beechey is a strange place, when compared to Greenland. For some reason, it reminds Collins of Dungeness, back home in England – perhaps due to the expanse of shingle that seems to stretch on and on. It is desolate, too, like Dungeness, until they set up their camp for the winter here.

It is hard work, protecting the ships against the pressure of the ice, and they all help where they can.  
If nothing else, it keeps them warm and occupied.

He has been to the Arctic once before, but the place seems different to how he remembers it. There is an eeriness here, in the wind almost whispering in their ears and the twinkling stars above them, an eeriness in the eternal winter night.

It is the kind of place that inspires men to make up stories, the kind of place where they conjure up strange creatures and spirits from the depths of their wary minds – beings that, they imagine, occupy this vast emptiness which now surrounds them.

Stories to frighten and to entertain, during the endless nights.

And there is a kind of mystical quality, here, as if anything could happen – that is true.

But the men are, overall, in good spirits. Some of them miss their families back home – Billy Orren has told him as much once evening, when they were reinforcing the ship against a storm threatening on the horizon. And although he knows the men of Erebus better still than those of Terror, Mr Blanky tells him it is pretty much the same with their lot.

Collins has been out on the sea long enough to know that, eventually, homesickness will pass.

He likes to walk across the expanse of their camp every evening.

Random chatter and the sound of his own feet against the coarse snow mixes in with the wind, and, although he cannot explain why, the incongruity of it all pleases him. It is not an easy feat, walking across the pebbles and ice and snow, but he is strong and able. Years of hard work have led him to this point. He does not tire easily.

This evening, out in the far horizon, another storm is brewing – there is the quick yellow spark of lightning, although it is still too far away for the sound of the thunder to travel here. The air does not feel charged with it yet – only crisp, clean.

The storm will come, eventually, he knows – they all know. And they are prepared.

As he passes one of the tents, where the flaps are still open, he can hear the voice of one of the ship's boys – David Young, his mind quickly supplies – sounding horrified as he utters an uncharacteristically sharp, “No!”

Collins stops walking, for a short moment alarmed, before the young man continues, “That is not true, no such thing exists!”

The exclamation is followed by laughter, before John Hartnell's travelling voice responds, “Aye, such creature does exist up here. It sucks the soul right out of a man, sucks the life out of every living thing. Is why there is no plants or animals up here anymore.”

Collins smiles and shakes his head. For a moment, he wonders if he should interrupt them, but he decides against it. It is harmless – entertaining tales of bored, young men, awaiting the thunderstorm, nothing more.

“Won't it come for us then?” he hears Young ask.

Hartnell coughs, almost violently, but his reply afterwards is calm and steady – confident, even, “Not as long as I'm here, David. I've a keen eye for spotting creatures like that – can see them from miles out. We will be able to hide well enough before it even sniffs us out, even with the old damage to my ankle.”

Collins walks on, past the cook, who is smoking and chatting to Bridgens, where the large Neptune is begging for scraps of meat – a happy but foul-smelling dog, even out here in the open air. The dog has, like the men, been given extra rations over Christmas, and now the animal has gotten used to it, gotten used to the luxury of holiday meats and treats. He shakes his head, fondly, and walks on.

Then, after looking in the direction of the storm and deeming it an acceptable distance away, he walks past his own tent, and past the observation tent too, towards the far end of the camp.

The hill builds up higher by this end, there is more protection against the wind here, and noises and voices come through more clearly. He can hear Neptune howling pathetically, the way the dog often does when denied any more scraps – attempting, and failing, to convince anyone that it has never eaten anything in its entire life. It will ultimately always be given a few more bites of meat anyway.

Collins' attention, however, is taken up by the discussion between a few of the men off of Terror, sitting close together around a small oil lamp. They must perhaps not understand how clear their quiet voices are.

“It's a disgrace, really. Should've been sent off home when we were docked in Greenland.”

Collins is not certain of the man's name, but he recognises the voice as that belonging to the Caulker's Mate – the one with the oddly smug, rat-looking features.

“That's a bit harsh, innit, Mr Hickey?” some one else says.  
“A female aboard a ship? That's bad luck, everyone knows that. It wouldn't be allowed on Terror, I can tell you that.”  
“But technically,” someone else says – it's one of the Marines, Collins sees, where he looks towards them from his position close to the wall of a tent, “Is _female_ even the right word?”  
“Not a real man, that for damn sure,” Hickey says, and the group laughs.

That blasted monkey, Collins thinks. Blasted, and spoiled, too, by the men of Erebus, who sew her clothes of all sorts in their spare time. Though Collins does not really mind the monkey. He dislikes this kind of talk much more.

This is another type of superstition – different from the one that he overheard John Hartnell provide earlier, more harmful, too. Not because there is any more truth to this one, but rather, because it carries the risk of lowering the morale of the men much more than any story of a non-existing creature might do. In a few days or perhaps weeks, David Young will have forgotten about the soul-swallowing spirit – but this other kind of superstition, a prejudice, really, will linger on, the way it always has, without reason.

Although he only knows them peripherally, he decides to approach the group. And, although not one of the higher ranking officers, he hopes that he can instil some sense of rationality and decorum among the men.

They look up, faces mostly lined in surprise, when they hear him approaching. He nods towards them, keeping a straight face.

“I could not help but overhear your discussion,” he begins, and some of the men visibly wince, “And if I am to be honest, it is all rubbish, it is all just superstition – you should not be too concerned about whether that monkey is male or female. Besides, it is a _monkey_ , first and foremost.”

The men's eyes are all cast low, looking down into their laps or at their hands – except for the rat-like man, the Caulker's Mate, referred to as Hickey just before. He looks at Collins with an amused expression on his face, grin crooked, but says nothing.

After a short while, Manson, the larger man sitting next to Hickey, looks up at Collins, too, and says: “But we weren't talking about no monkey, sir.”

His face is open, honest, but there is a blankness behind his eyes, even as the lamp light reflects in them. Beside him, Hickey closes his own eyes, as if in exasperation, but huffs out a laugh.

Lightning illuminates them all brightly for a second or two.

“Pardon?”  
“I said that we-”  
“Nothing, Mr Collins, nothing,” Hickey interrupts, elbowing the larger man next to him. “We're just jesting a bit. It's harmless, right?”  
“Well, find other ways of doing so.”  
“Yes, sir.”

As he turns to walk back to Erebus, they are strangely silent behind him so that only the wind, and the now fast-approaching thunder, can be heard.

Hail starts falling before he is in close range of his own tent, large rounds of it, like angry, icy fists – it forces him to bend his head low, arms up to protect it, as he walks on.

He should have known better than to tempt fate, in this infernal place – weather conditions change quickly here – but he so desired the fresh air and the walk, to tire out his body and mind.

From somewhere on the other end of the camp, a man is suddenly crying out, and then others are shouting, too – calling out for help, for a surgeon to come _help_ , but also telling the injured man to calm down.

John Hartnell, Collins thinks, recognising the pained voice, and considers running to the man to help. Before he can do so, Dr Goodsir runs out of the medical tent a few yards in front of him, towards the commotion. For some reason, Collins stops in his tracks, hands still protective above his head, observing the small surgeon brave his way through the storm.

A lone figure out in the elements, no one else running to help.

It is a strange scene.

From the tent opening to his left, Dr Peddie's head appears. “Are you coming in or going?”  
“Going,” Collins says, “But thank you.”

Dr Peddie nods and closes the tent flaps.

Collins runs towards Hartnell, towards Goodsir.


	8. May 1847

After the interrogation by Sir Franklin as well as Captains Crozier and Fitzjames, Goodsir's spirits are low. He knows his position – all too well he knows it – and he struggles with the balance of even keeping it. He had wanted to take part in the sledge party to show that he could be of help in other areas too, that he is not an imposter, can be of use, in general. And he feels like he has failed. On top of that, he feels ridiculed by the senior officers, his account of what had happened out there on the ice was as good as dismissed – and with it, he was too.

Maybe it is simply that they are all tired of one another, having been cooped up together for too long. He doesn't know.

It is hard to shake, though, the feeling of having been wronged somehow, of one's account not being taken seriously – perhaps, specifically, not being taken seriously because it had come from _him_.

He is not unaware of some of the rumours that a few of the men pass around, nor is he unaware of himself.

He tries his best.

More than ever before on this voyage, he wants to get away from everyone, away from this place even, in spite of all its beauty.

“Get some rest,” Captain Fitzjames had told him, once the senior officers' meeting was adjourned. Goodsir does not give Fitzjames enough credit, perhaps. The man had come looking for him, after all, where he was sitting at the bow of the ship, looking out across the ice, listening for sounds of that infernal beast of a bear. Goodsir had nodded and given the other man a smile, but he had remained at the bow even after Fitzjames left.

He has come to realise through this whole voyage how different people really are to one another, even when from the same nation.

It seems almost exhausting to think of how easily he has classified and drawn some newly discovered small animal, how he has put it into its proper hierarchy and determined that this one, _this one tiny creature_ , is an example, a representative, of its entire species – it is a simplified truth, somehow.

The world is not truly like that. There are too many variables in all living things. He knows that now.

And it is strange – he is only in control of himself, but his entire fate rests not in the hands of himself only, but in the hands of all the men aboard this ship. Their behaviour is not him, of course, but it is not so separate from him that it does not affect him, one way or another.

He knows what some of the men are saying about him.

He almost shouts out in fear, when he feels a hand on his shoulder, but manages to shut his mouth in time, so that only the way his entire body stiffens gives away his shock. Collins says nothing of it, only sits down next to him.

“I heard what happened. Well, I heard whispers.”  
“Yes.”  
“Are you alright?”  
“I do not know.”

He takes a deep breath, tries to re-focus himself somehow. He was not physically hurt, during the incident with the bear. But his entire body pains him.

“The men are on high alert,” says Collins, “Cannot blame them. But I sense that they do not actually know what took place out there. Is that for the better?”

Goodsir shrugs. He feels very small, insignificant, as if his best is not enough.

“What happened out there? I would like to hear it. From you.”

Goodsir turns his head to look at him. He gets the impression that this is something new, for all of Collins' good intentions with the men – this is something that has only recently come into his awareness, the skill of asking people, for their own sake, to talk about things that they would rather not.

He knows what Collins is doing – in fact, he recognises it from himself, from his own behaviour, and the feeling of recognition makes something in his chest burn.

And he does tell him, then, all that he knows. How it was from his perspective, out there on the ice, the chaos of it all. It was almost theatrical, with the thunder above them, and the contrast of the blood against the snow. It was fitting for a scene on the stage of the finest theatres in London.

This is the first time he has seen a man be killed. For certainly, Lieutenant Gore was killed by that beast, there is no doubt in him about that. He wonders if this will change him, somehow. Toughen him up. But he can hear the soft and wavering tone of his own voice, as he tells Collins what happened, he can see his own hands shake not from cold but from the trauma of remembering.

He is not changed.

He is what he is what he is.

He knows what the men say of him. After all, they are all bunked up close together, how can he not happen to overhear every once in a while? Sometimes, too, he wonders if they do it on purpose, Bryant especially – if they know that he is within listening range and talk anyway, or even because of it. But he cannot bring himself to truly believe that anyone would be malicious like that.

“Maybe I was not made for this. Perhaps I should have stayed at home.”  
“Harry...”  
“I mean it. I... You must have overheard it too, surely? You know of what I am referring?”  
“The men will always talk, or create something out of nothing.”  
“It is not nothing!”  
“No, I meant-”  
“And I can hardly say something, can I? Because it is all true, all of it. I am not strong enough, not skilled enough, not-” he stops himself, “I am useless, here.”  
“You are not. I know that I may have very little basis on which to judge this, since I am not a scientist in any way, but you are clearly the most competent of our surgeons aboard this ship. And, just as important, you... You _care_. You did not come here to commandeer this ship, or to lead sledge parties over ice, or to fight bears, or to scrub the floors on the lower decks. You came here as a surgeon, as a scientist, as a naturalist. You are the opposite of useless. And you saved that Esquimaux man, did you not?”

His chest is burning from keeping tears at bay. His breath is superficial and comes out in small separate puffs that hang in the air before dissipating.

He feels like all that he is, the core of him, is disappearing, like he can feel himself dissolve, somehow, and he wants nothing more than to strip off his gloves and touch the frosted wood of the ship, to feel the coarseness beneath his fingertips, and then the pain, the pain, the pain of the cold, which might be enough to ground him in this reality before he all but vanishes.

“Is there anyone in the sick bay?”  
“No – the Esquimaux are on Terror now.”  
“Not even Dr Stanley in the sick bay?”  
“Not if he can help it.”  
“Alright, then...” Collins touches his shoulder briefly, “Then meet me there in five minutes. It's too cold up here.”

He watches the man stride across the deck, nodding politely at Best as he passes him. 

As it turns out, Collins' plan is, plainly and simply, alcohol. He has kept some of this rations for a while, he explains, so that there is more than enough for the two of them as they sit by the small study in the sick bay.

They should not drink too much, they both know, but it does not stop them. Goodsir has never been that much of a drinker, and, certainly, the amount of alcohol on offer here is enough to soon make him feel like the ship is actually moving again, make him feel as if the sea has once more come alive beneath them.

Collins, too, looks more alive – nose and cheekbones reddened slightly from the cold. Goodsir imagines he looks much the same.

And that intense feeling of being very alone among the rest of the crew starts to slowly dissipate as the alcohol takes effect. At least Collins is here, like he always is. It is an oddly comforting thought.

Goodsir feels his worries slip away.

Collins is here, and Goodsir does feel grounded now, where they sit in the sick bay by his desk as the ship slowly sways beneath them.

“Have you noticed,” he begins, then momentarily becomes unsure how to continue, “Have you noticed that we are alike?”  
“Whatever do you mean?”

Collins leans slightly forward in his chair, and Goodsir mirrors him.

“We look alike.”  
“No, Harry, we really don't.”  
“Well... I mean in the broader sense, in the defining words. Dark hair, and these...” he lifts his hand and grasps hold of Collins' whiskers. Collins starts laughing.  
“That... That's it?”

Goodsir lets go and shrugs. Maybe it doesn't matter, but it feels as if it should. Out of everyone aboard, Collins is the only one that reminds him a bit of home, although he will never admit to it. He cannot explain it either – it is more the overall impression or sense that Collins gives off, how he makes him feel, rather than anything specific in the way he looks or behaves.

Across from him, Collins reaches out his hand and grasps hold of Goodsir's curls.

“Ow, hey!”  
“Shh! I don't have these.”

It is true. Collins has an unruly mop of hair, even if somewhat wavy – especially at this hour. He nods slowly, and Collins doesn't let go, only changes his grip slightly. His other hand comes up to touch Goodsir's cheekbone, and then his nose, his lips, as if he is examining him in detail, like Goodsir does with his small creatures that afford him publications in the scientific journals back home.

“You really were not injured?”

Goodsir shakes his head, movement slightly restricted by Collins' hands.

“Do you feel better now?”

He nods.

“I'm not...” Collins says, and then stops, biting his lip. The gap between his two front teeth is an oddly charming feature. He tries again, “You're very soft.”  
“Soft?”  
“Well, yes. It's pleasing.”

Goodsir blinks a few times more than he necessarily should, and he can feel his cheeks heat up in a blush. Collins removes his hands, smiling.

“Besides, here I thought you spent the journey studying the fauna and flora of the Arctic, when really, what you tell me is that you have simply been categorising us. At least, then, accept my contribution.”  
“Henry...”  
“Come, let's just share this last of the rum, and then maybe I will counterpoint your observations by telling you of all the other ways we are not alike.”

He unceremoniously and unevenly divides the last of the rum into their mugs. Goodsir takes hold of his glass and pours a bit of his own rum into Collins' mug.

“Hey, no, how come-”  
“You're larger than me, I suppose – which means that...you can consume more, to less effects. Or something.”  
“Oh, I feel the effect, believe me.”  
“Yes?”  
“Yes. Tomorrow will be horrible.”  
“It is tomorrow, by now.”  
“Blasted. Well, it is not all horrible then.”

In one smooth move, Collins empties his own mug and then Goodsir's too, and Goodsir cannot help but huff out a laugh. He feels drunk, and happy all of a sudden, and he has momentarily forgotten why he could not sleep. In fact, this entire conversation that they have just had seems like something out of a dream, and he wonders if he has actually fallen asleep.

The hand on his thigh feels real though, solid, squeezing slightly, as Collins leans closer, mouth to his ear.

“I meant it, what I said,” he whispers, and it is probably not just for effect, but for where they are, sitting in the quiet sick bay as the ship's crew is asleep. “You are the opposite of useless, out here. And... And I also meant the other thing, of course – you are very pleasing to the eye.”

Goodsir closes his eyes, sighs.

“Harry?”

Collins draws back to look him in the eye. His lack of response other than a sigh must have confused the man.

“Say it again, please,” he presses.  
“Which part?”  
“That I'm...you know.”  
“Oh!”  
“Say it, please.”  
“You are very pleasing to the eye.”

Goodsir leans his forehead against that of Collins, smiling. He had imagined it differently, this voyage. He had imagined the people aboard the ship differently from how they are. And he had resigned himself to the fact that any human contact would be limited during the voyage, the way it had really always been.

“Do you remember Christmas Eve?”  
Collins' laugh is confirmation enough alone, although he does supply an answer. “Yes.”  
“Do you think... I mean, only if you would like to...”  
“Of course.”

Goodsir stumbles slightly, as he stands up.

“Haven't found my sea legs yet,” he says, and he can hear Collins unsuccessfully trying to suppress a laugh, before supporting his arm.

They tiptoe their way along the ship as best they can, then separate by the ladderway. Fagin, of all things, runs to greet Goodsir at his cabin. He bends down as the cat weaves in and out between his legs, to scratch behind its ear. In the quiet of the ship, he can hear Fagin's purr quite clearly.

“I have got to get ready for bed,” he whispers to the cat, before standing up again, supporting himself with one hand against the cabin door. He hopes that no great medical emergency emerges during the day, for he will surely feel the repercussions of Collins' saved up rations later.

He ends up tucking himself in successfully, before Collins slides the cabin door open and then closed again behind him. Goodsir automatically shuffles sideways on the bunk and onto his side, making room for the other man.

It is a tiny cabin, with a tiny bunk bed, nothing like his own bed back home, the one with proper room for two people – although he has never shared its space with anyone. They lie silently on their sides, pressed close, in the dark. From somewhere else on the deck, a loud snore pierces through the wooden walls.

Sound travels easily, too easily.

Collins reaches an arm around his waist, pulls him closer, and Goodsir's hand move from his upper arm to the nape of Collins' neck.

“Alright?” Collins whispers, and Goodsir is not certain what the other man is referring to, but nods anyway, nose brushing nose, and runs his fingers through Collins' hair.

“Is this alright?” Collins asks after a while, and Goodsir understands then, all of it, feels suddenly sober, aware of everything that is happening around them, and to them, and between them.  
“Yes.”

Collins leans in and kisses him, hesitantly, just the slightest press of lips upon lips, until Goodsir, with the hand at Collins' neck, presses him closer even.

They kiss for a while like that, softly, pausing every now and then to look one another in the eyes through the darkness, before eventually succumbing to sleep.


	9. May 1845

Collins watches the men board the ship from his position on the upper deck. He recognises some of the faces, but most are new, with unfamiliar names attached to them, as they present themselves to the lieutenants – he will get to know them soon enough, has always taken pride in knowing the names of everyone of those he works alongside, even if he is offered no more than their surnames.

Some of the boys look very young, and he wonders if they really understand what they have signed up for. He is familiar with the pull of adventure well enough, that youthful curiosity that drives some forward without considering the risks involved. And he is not too old yet, but old enough, and experienced enough, by now, to understand that what they are setting out to do is no easy feat, there is a cost involved which, ultimately, is at risk of being higher than whatever is gained personally.

On the shore, men are saying goodbye to their families. He observes them with a detached curiosity as kisses are shared, tears shed and wiped away. He said goodbye to his own siblings by letter, his mother by a kiss on her cheek.

An old woman is fussing over a young man, who cannot be more than eighteen years of age, thin and pale, nervous looking. Collins cannot hear from afar what the woman is saying, but the young man is nodding, taking a deep breath and straightening his back, before they walk on, past Erebus and towards Terror, where he loses sight of them in the crowd.

As he walks towards the ladderway, he feels an odd sense of contentment – at least he knows this life, is accustomed to it – likes it, even. This restlessness of the young men before setting sail is gone from him, has been gone for years now, and it has been replaced instead by the confidence that comes only with knowledge and experience.

It will be tough, this voyage, certainly, but he feels ready for it.

At the bottom of the main ladderway, he turns around to walk to his cabin, when he nearly bumps into a small man holding some sort of intricately designed apparatus.

“I'm terribly sorry,” he says, at the same time as the other man also apologises.

It is an unfamiliar face that greets him when he turns his attention to the man – dark curly hair, polite eyes framed in dark lashes, a hesitant smile revealing slightly crooked, white teeth. He is not as young as some of the other new faces, perhaps only a few years younger than Collins himself, but there is something youthful or simply innocent in the way he carries himself – as well as an apparent unfamiliarity with his surroundings, which tells Collins that the man is not used to being aboard a ship.

“Never mind. That looks heavy. And expensive.”

Collins nods towards the brass instrument in the other's hands.

“I-it is. Both, I mean. The... The finest microscope of its kind. For the creatures a-and the plants etcetera. I should not have taken it out of its box already, but I wanted to make sure that it was still intact from the travelling.”

The man shifts his weight on his feet and changes his grip on the microscope. “I am Dr Goodsir, sir – pleased to meet you.”

“Collins – Second Master.”

For a moment, neither man says anything. For his slight stammer, the man does not seem particularly nervous, like some of the other new faces outside had.

“Well, I will be seeing you around, Dr Good.”

“Goodsir.”

“Pardon?”

“It – it is Goodsir,”

“Oh, alright. Dr Goodsir.”

The man smiles, this time with his lips closed, and turns to slide open the door to his cabin. It is opposite that of Collins' own, he realises, but kept out of view from it by the main hatch.

Before he rounds the corner of the hatch, he turns to look back over his shoulder and unexpectedly catches the doctor's eyes briefly.


	10. November 1847

“Have you ever been lashed, sir?”  
“No! Good Lord, Morfin...” Morfin's question shocks him, for a moment. “Have you?”  
“Only once, sir.”  
“F-for what infraction?”  
“Well, what do you think, sir?”

Goodsir does not respond. He feels, suddenly, as if standing on thin ice, he can imagine it cracking beneath him, a warning sound, before it will release him into a black abyss. There is no good way out of this conversation. Any scramble for safe ground will cause him to slip, and, worse, slip up.

He should not have asked.

He becomes, however, so wrapped up in the mystery of Morfin's gums, which he discovers to be lined with a dark blueish discolouration, that, in all of the stress and fear of that finding, he forgets about the exchange for several hours.

It is only later, as he is restlessly turning over in his bunk, that his mind traces his steps, like footprints in snow, back onto that slippery patch of thin ice where their conversation remains frozen in place.

He supposes that Morfin was perhaps simply looking for conversation, of any sorts – that the man did not mean to imply anything by the questions. But the nagging fact, which Goodsir cannot let go of so easily, is that the men aboard both Erebus and Terror know him, by now.

They know him, they all know him, more or less, and Morfin – with whom he shared the unpleasant experience of the sledge party – certainly knows him.

And yet Morfin had asked him if he had ever been lashed.

Goodsir is, basically, good. It is not a surprise to anyone. He knows that of himself, can acknowledge it without feeling like he is boasting. Several years of being around and aware of other people has led him to understand how others perceive him – kind, helpful, intelligent, gentle. Weak, perhaps, some would say.

Those words – applied to him, describing him – rule out most reasons for floggings. There is also the fact that this is his first time serving on a ship, leaving even less chance of him ever having been lashed.

So where does that leave him, in terms of potential infractions that could lead to flogging, other than in the clear?

He can only think of one.

He thinks it unfair, somehow, that this is how life is going to be. Not just here, but anywhere, really. 

It is one thing to have sufficient self-insight to know not only of one's own characteristics and predilections and also understand how any other person perceives them – it is another thing entire to completely accept oneself and to resign oneself to these characteristics, these predilections, to stay true to oneself, however painful that choice might end up being.

He knows what some of the men whisper of him.

But he has always been enough, on his own – been enough alone, by himself. He has not ever felt lonely in all his difference. Now, thinking of the conversation with Morfin, all of a sudden, he feels claustrophobic. It rises up in him, a foreign feeling of falling apart, of being doomed, offered no escape.

He is being known, and he is being judged.

The men are right.

Morfin might not have meant to imply anything, but he implicitly did, and the thought sticks with Goodsir – that they all know, and laugh behind his back, that they detest him for it, that perhaps even Sir Franklin, in all his aloofness towards him, knew. And even worse – that someone like Captain Fitzjames, who treats him with kindness and interest, knows and maybe secretly is disgusted, or that someone like Bridgens, with whom he frequently discusses books and art, simply puts up with him because the man is too polite to say what he really thinks of Goodsir.

Fear is a powerful catalyst – once the thoughts start, they do not stop.

And there is a limit to how much he can take – he feels it fast approaching. It is perhaps not this one thing alone, but several things that come crashing together all at once. He feels claustrophobic, caught in the middle of it all, and he feels the tears well up and spill before he can stop it from happening.

It overwhelms him so suddenly that he can barely breathe, like a punch in the stomach. They all _know_ , and they all _judge_. And they are in their right to.

He feels ashamed when he slides open his door and tiptoes across the short space between Collins' cabin and his own – feels ashamed that he will drag the other man into this, drag him down with him.

He does not knock on Collins' cabin, simply opens door open and closes it again behind him.

“Ha- Harry?” Collins whispers into the darkness and Goodsir can hear him moving to get out of bed.

“I- I don't feel so well.”

He can hear the desperation in his own whispered voice. He can hear the tears, too.

Then, even in the pitch darkness, Collins' arms finds their way around him and he pulls him tight. Goodsir turns his head so that the sound of his crying is hopefully muffled and silenced against Collins' chest.

“Shh, easy now,” Collins says.

Goodsir tries to focus on the steady sound of his heartbeat and on Collins' hands on his back. The other man does not ask what is going on, does not pry, but after a while, he loosens his grip and steps back to take Goodsir's face in his hands and wipe away the tracks of his tears.

“Do you want to talk, or just sleep?”  
“We risk waking up someone...”  
“I don't give a fuck about that – nothing wrong in talking, is there?”  
“Well, it's...”

Collins leans his forehead against Goodsirs, keeps it there. He has to bend down slightly, to do so, and for some reason the thought of that sticks with Goodsir. As Collins lets his hands travel from Goodsir's face to his shoulders and then down to his waist, Goodsir feels the claustrophobia and fear slip away, and his breathing begins to settle. Collins is a fairly large man, but he feels safe rather than threatening or imposing.

His hair is more unruly than usual, probably from sleeping, Goodsir finds, as he brings his hands up into the man's hair.

They have not kissed since that one night in May, after the sledge party. So much has happened after, in such little time – the death of Sir Franklin, followed by some the crew falling sick from unknown causes, and eventually this mess of several men becoming increasingly superstitious, blaming the Esquimaux for every bad thing happening, and subsequently violently chasing them away from the ships – hence the flogging.

There has been little time to just be, together.

At one point, he has even found himself wondering if maybe Collins does not remember their kiss at all, if the amount of alcohol had blurred the memory of that night perhaps. But based on the way Collins has been treating him – standing slightly closer than needed, when possible, touching Goodsir's face a lot, and complimenting him whenever they have been far enough away from others that no one can overhear – Goodsir understands that Collins, like himself, has neither forgotten nor regrets it.

Goodsir is happy for it. It is perhaps the one redeeming thing about being stuck up here, even if it is forever – Collins is here, too.

Goodsir pulls Collins towards him, and leans up to meet his lips in the dark. They are slightly chapped, from days in the extreme cold outside, but warm and responsive against his own. Goodsir sighs out of relief, and Collins pulls him closer.

There is so much warmth between them, Goodsir notices. He feels a light, tingling sensation in his abdomen and chest, something borne out of this, of them.

Collins deepens the kiss, his tongue pushing past Goodsir's lips. It is a new sensation, to kiss like this, but wholly pleasant, Collins' tongue against his own.

He feels himself being walked backwards and pushed up against the wall, one of Collins' hands cradling the back of his head to soften the impact, and he feels himself almost instinctively pulling Collins closer to him.

For a while, as they stand there, Goodsir forgets everything else, as if only this moment, and only they, exist.

There is only them in all this darkness, which is outside of and apart from them and so it cannot be a threat – there is only the pressure of Collins against him, his hands at the small of his back, pressing them close together, and this intense warmth, this sensation of tingling, now everywhere, his body somehow signalling that yes, this is it – that, if it was not clear to him already, it should be now: he is in love.

At least, if they are to be stuck up here, and be part of the ice, forever – at least he knows that feeling now, can treasure it for however long it takes before the cold seeps into them, bone deep, and never leaves.

“I... I think we better slow down a bit, now,” Collins whispers eventually, as he pulls back slightly.  
“Wha- why?”  
“Because I, erm...” He sounds embarrassed. “Because I...want you.”  
“Oh!”  
“Yes.”

They are both breathing heavily. Collins steps back.

“Sorry.”  
“No – no, don't apologise. Do you want me to leave?”  
“No. Unless you feel uncomfortable, that is. Just, erm, give me a moment to...calm myself down a bit.”

Goodsir nods, then realises that Collins probably cannot see it.

“Uncomfortable is the thing I am least of all.”

They end up sleeping next to one another on Collins' bunk. Goodsir lies awake for a little while, once again pondering about the conversation with Morfin, but he is calmer now, cradled in Collins' arms, the other man's chest warm along his back and his face nestled against Goodsir's neck.

During his training, he has had to treat a few victims of lashings, whenever infections set in – he knows how to clean and dress and change the wounds, sharp and swollen and red and painful as they are.

But for all of his empathy and sympathy for the bearer of wounds after the fact, he cannot come close to imagine what it must feel like, being lashed, neither the physical pain nor the other type – the pain of the scars that form in the mind, of being stripped in front of others and punished, reduced to something less than human, somehow.

It must feel the opposite of this, he thinks, as Collins holds him.


	11. July 1849

He follows Goodsir to Edinburgh. Not immediately, but about month after returning to England. At first, when HMS Investigator brings them back to English soil, he goes to his family, where his belongings have been stored for the duration of the voyage. He does not own much, and whatever items there are, they mean little to nothing to him – especially now. He never expected to settle down anywhere, perhaps because of the frequent moves of his childhood, perhaps because of his profession.

But things are different now.

He goes through his possessions with a curious detachment, as if it is somehow difficult to reconcile his present self with that of his past. Something in him changed, up there, perhaps so gradually that it did not feel significant at the time – but he feels it now, clear and solid.

He sees the Boy's Own Encyclopedia and other adventure books, which he so enjoyed reading as a child, and he knows that he no longer has the same taste for adventure as he used to. But, oddly, not because the voyage drained him, although it did, not because he has had enough of adventure, by now, to last him a lifetime, although he has – instead, part of his longing for adventure, the great unknown, has been replaced with a longing for something else, which is difficult to describe and not clearly recognisable to him yet.

During their time apart, they write letters to one another. It is a strange thing, missing someone in this way, so that all of his thoughts seek to centre around the other man – a strange thing, too, how even the most random of things seems to remind him of Goodsir.

He wonders what his mother and siblings think of him – if they think him mad when they find him smiling as he is hacking wood in the garden, or when they catch him staring off longingly into thin air. They never comment on it.

“I am going to visit a friend,” he tells his mother one evening, before retreating off to bed. “I plan to stay there a while.”  
“Oh? Someone from the expedition perhaps?”  
“Yes, it is in fact. One of the surgeons.”  
His mother smiles up at him. “I suppose you all have a great amount to talk about.”  
“Yes. And... I just think I need a...change of environment, for a while, I suppose. I have never been to Edinburgh before.”  
“Your father might be stationed in Scotland in the foreseeable future.”  
“I did not now that.”

She nods. Her smile is sincere, but she looks tired – not just from the hour, but from years of having moved around the country, perhaps. In a way, every home has been a temporary one for her, ever since she married his father. She may not have been at sea herself, but the ground on which she has lived has never been fully solid.

“When are you leaving?”  
“The day after tomorrow. I have packed up all that I need. I leave a few things behind that I no longer need, for you or the others to keep – if any of you will want them. Or we can give them away to some charity.”  
“You take everything else with you?”  
“Yes.”

For a while, they are both silent. He cannot tell what she is thinking. Eventually, she gets up from her chair and embraces him, kissing his cheek.

“Alright, go, my dear,” she says, “But we will miss you – like we always do.”

Goodsir meets him at the train station. He looks so very alive, Collins thinks, as he, from a distance, recognises the man where he is stood waiting for him. There is no trace of a beard on him anymore, there has in fact not been since during their voyage back, and his hair is slightly shorter now, but the way he holds himself is the same as always.

Young, he looks so young, Collins thinks, almost as if the years in the Arctic did not age him at all. Goodsir spots him, then, and all but runs to him and throws himself in his arms.

“Thank God that you're here. I don't know what I would do without you,” Goodsir whispers.

His openness and honesty still surprises Collins, even though he expects nothing else from the man – but it is still strange to hear those words directed at him.

Goodsir rests his head on his shoulder as they embrace. Any show of affection is different, now that they are back, or rather, is looked differently upon. He is slightly wary of it, in public. Through the months – years, really – that they were all stuck in the Arctic, some new equilibrium was reached between what was acceptable, in terms of shows of affection between any of the men, and what was not.

It was as though the place robbed them of all but their humanity, and, for some of the men, even that was lost, too. But for most of them, this human trait of caring about and for one another was all there was left. It was not charged with anything, Collins thinks, at least not in most of the cases – no ulterior motive behind being kind, behind being simply human, and not necessarily anything deeper behind it than friendship.

Strange that a place so barren and desolate would, in the end, and despite all the horrors there, strengthen his belief in humanity.

The further they all got from the ships, the more evident it became. He saw it in the way Little would give some of his rations to an ill-looking Jopson, he saw it in the way Crozier accommodated his pace of walking, so that Blanky – and, later, Fitzjames – would not have to struggle to keep up, he heard it in the bedtime stories that Bridgens read aloud for all of the men, and, after the weight of books had been discarded, in the stories that he told by memory. He saw it in the silent looks shared between Crozier and Fitzjames.

Compassion, friendship, love. Perhaps it was that simple.

All that humanity was needed in order to not simply survive, but to live.

There is a difference between the two, Collins is learning.

“I think you will like them all, and certainly, they will like you.”  
“That is – yes.”  
“I know that John will be pleased to meet you.”  
“And likewise – you really have told me a lot about him for the past three years.”  
“He's... Quite extraordinary.”  
“No – _you_ are.”

Goodsir sighs.

“D- do you really mean that? Still?”  
“Yes.”

Collins puts his arm around his shoulder as they are walking. He wonders what they must look like to anyone else, wonders why it matters here more than up there in the snow.

He wonders how much Goodsir's family will know.

Goodsir's room is of decent size, in this attic shared between him, his brother, and a friend of them both, who had introduced himself as Edward.

There is a bookshelf lined with several books on anatomy and scientific journals, as well as a few trinkets. Collins recognises the hag stone that he found back on Beechey. By the window, a small desk. And, on Goodsir's bed, a black-and-white cat lazily stretches as they enter the room.

“Professor Felix,” Goodsir says and nods towards the animal, before scratching it behind its ear. “She is one of several animals here. She rather likes it in my room, so I suppose you will have to get used to her.”

Collins nods and lets the cat sniff his hand tentatively.

“Would you like tea? Or anything else? I am being a horrible host, I...”  
“Harry.”  
“And the room is rather sparse, I am afraid. When I left, I didn't expect anyone to come back here with me, a-and I have barely settled myself in yet. I... I don't...”

He walks over to the stuttering man and gently places his hands on his shoulders, trying to still him. He doesn't know why Goodsir is all of a sudden being this fidgety, but then again, circumstances have changed so much that it leaves Collins' head spinning, thinking about it.

He can feel the bones of Goodsir's shoulders through the fabric of his shirt, but also how his breathing slowly settles.

“It is late. We could just go to bed and then deal with everything else tomorrow morning.”

Goodsir nods, seemingly relieved.

It is much different now from how it was aboard Erebus, on that narrow bunk, different from how it was out there, in the snow, huddling for warmth. Here, in late July, it is much warmer, and only a thin blanket is needed for cover, if any at all. The faint light from outside leaves the room in shadows, rather than complete darkness, so for once, even after turning off the lamps, he can still see the other man.

They lie face to face, but quite apart on the mattress. Collins has never seen this much of Goodsir's skin all at once – skin, which is pale in the moonlight, but whole, unblemished, untouched by whatever horrors happened on their voyage. Or maybe simply healed again.

He is slimmer than Collins had the impression of, now that there are not several layers of clothes to obscure the view of his body.

“I cannot believe we are here. That you are here with me.”  
“It won't be easy.”  
“I know. But nothing ever is. It does not scare me. More than anything, I am relieved.”  
“Relieved?”

The mattress dips, and Goodsir moves closer.

“That you're here. That – you're alright.”

Collins reaches out a hand, rests the palm of it against Goodsir's cheek, where there was once a messy whisker. The skin is soft beneath his fingers.

He has never said it aloud before, although the feeling has been there for a long time. It is simple really – all this humanity, all that ever matters, it does not need to be spoken out loud, for it to be true.

And yet.

“I... I love you.”  
“I love you too.”

He lets his hand trace down the side of Goodsir's neck, shoulder, arm, and then around to the back of his waist, the skin warm, intact, smooth. Goodsir has a hand on his chest, as if palpating his heartbeat, and the other around the back of his neck, and the same warmth is there now, between them, as was there in the Arctic, only perhaps here, in this room, it is more intense somehow.

He pulls Goodsir in, the same way that Goodsir's eyes seem to draw him closer, and kisses him deeply, and, as cliché as it sounds, it feels a lot like coming home.


	12. April 1848

Over the last couple of years, Goodsir has learned a simple truth about the human condition: it is surprising how much a man can endure, yet how little it can take to break one all the same.

He has sat bedside by patients who should, by all that he knows, already have passed – their conditions so severe that he cannot discern what keeps them alive, what makes their bodies or minds cling on to existence, what sustains their life – and yet they have persevered.

And others seem to have given up too early – at the smallest sign that something is wrong with them, they have let go of some internal spark and passed before their time.

Morfin is not doing well. Goodsir fights to keep the man on the right side of his illness, whatever it might be – lead poisoning, scurvy, or some combination thereof. He tries to stay ahead of it, but he knows that Morfin is slipping out of his hands, and he senses it creeping closer – that horrible feeling of being unable to provide help or comfort.

They are all exhausted by now, and they have not even been out on the ice for more than a few days. But every day is a painful trek across an unforgiving landscape. What keeps Goodsir going is not any particular hope, although he does possess some. Instead, he keeps going, enduring all the pains that his surroundings cause him, because he knows that these are simply the conditions here. There is no malice in the ice itself, in the frosty wind, in any of nature. He once overheard someone saying that this place wants them dead. He does not believe that to be true, although he does understand the reasoning behind that belief. But nature, at least to him, simply is – without any intent.

It is they, who have come here to conquer it. Their failure to do so cannot be blamed on anything other than themselves – a lack of preparation, insufficient equipment, and poor decisions made along the way, perhaps.

Overconfidence.

And so he looks across the seemingly never-ending stretch of ice and accepts the hardships that it has to offer. It does not mean that he likes it. But he will endure, he promises himself.

They sleep four in their tent, on mats on the ground. No one has questioned how the decision of who sleeps where came to be, and there was not really any discussion between them as they grouped up – it simply happened.

They have the tent with the sickest patients next to them, it seems logical that Goodsir and Bridgens, who has taken to helping with the sick, should be nearby. Collins and Peglar simply followed along. Out of the entire camp, as far as Goodsir can tell, the only man having a tent to himself is Dr Stanley – though whether by Stanley's own choice or by the choice of the rest of the men, Goodsir cannot say. But Dr Stanley sleeps alone in his tent, on what Collins refers to as “his throne” – a cot raised above the icy ground – surrounded by medicine bottles and other necessities that are, really, of little use out here.

Sometimes, Goodsir feels a wave of pity for the man wash over him, but when he mentions it, as they sit in their tent before night-time, Collins sighs and shakes his head, and Peglar huffs. Bridgens simply smiles at him, head tilted slightly sideways.

None of them, in the tent, show signs of scurvy or poisoning yet. But every once in a while, a strange melancholia seems to overtake Collins, where he is reluctant to talk to anyone, busies himself with odd jobs all day, when they are camped, or hauls the boat apparently tirelessly across the ice when they are not, an unreadable expression on his face. On nights following such days, he holds Goodsir tight to him, encircles him in his arms, almost as if Goodsir is the one needing some sort of reassurance.

They fall asleep like that. Sometimes, they wake up like that.

Neither Bridgens nor Peglar lift an eyebrow at their odd sleeping arrangement, although they must have clearly noticed, by now.

When Morfin wakes up the men one night – staggering into the middle of the camp, into the void of the darkness – Collins is firmly attached to Goodsir's back, arms around his waist. As they awaken to the sounds from outside, Morfin screaming out in despair, Collins grip on him seems to tighten for a few seconds, before he, almost reluctantly, releases him.

Goodsir is glad to see Peglar stay behind in the tent with Collins, when he and Bridgens run to the commotion outside.

On his and Bridgens return to the tent, when it is all over and Morfin's blood and brain matter stains the stones and freezes there, too, like a permanent mark on the ground and in Goodsir's mind, he recognises his own fear and panic on Collins' face.

He has always known that he feels too much, but he has, at least to an appropriate degree, been able to reign it in, to have it serve him rather than to be burdened by it. But now, in this moment here, he feels not only too much, but everything at once – fear and anger and resentment and futility and grief – it rises in him, makes him dizzy, unable to breathe, to think.

“I feel too much,” he manages to whisper, before he falls to his knees, overwhelmed by the lack of control he has over his own body.

Collins reaches out to him, and Goodsir watches him take his face in his hands, he can feel the touch of Collins careful fingers on his skin, but he feels numb too, a prickling sensation all over, and he cannot hear what Collins says, nor can he read his lips. Time seems to go slow, somehow, so that the time it takes Collins to get him to lie down seems to last forever, the movement never-ending, until his left shoulder hits the mat beneath him.

He cannot say how long it takes for him to realise that Collins is simply whispering his name to him, over and over again, as he strokes his face. Goodsir keeps looking into his eyes the entire time, as they lie next to one another.

“I-”  
“Shh, it is alright, it is alright, Harry, you're alright.”

Collins' face is so close to his own that he can feel his eyes going painfully cross-eyed from looking at the man. Their noses, equally cold, bump together. He can no longer tell which is his breath and which is the other man's, as if they share the same one somehow. He focuses on that thought and after a while realises that his breathing is slowing down again.

Only then does Collins put his arms around him and draw him in tight against his chest. His movements are slow and careful. Even through the layers of clothes, Goodsir can hear and feel the steady beat of his heart clearly. Collins kisses his temple.

They stay like that for a while, until Goodsir finds enough strength to say, “I'm alright.” It comes out muffled against Collins' chest.

Collins releases him from his arms, lets him sit himself up. On the opposite side of the tent, Bridgens and Peglar are staring at two separate parts of the wall of the tent. Their hands are clasped tight, Bridgens' left in Peglar's right.

“They shot him,” Goodsir says, as if Collins and Peglar had not figured that out on their own, by the sounds of the gun, or by Goodsir's reaction. The sentence seems to shake the two men across from him out of whatever pretence of privacy they have been trying to give Goodsir and Collins.

Peglar looks him in the eyes and nods. He looks exhausted, Goodsir thinks, but there is a trace of something else as well, a soft understanding in his eyes.

“We should all try to get some sleep,” Bridgens says.

None of the men in the tent move immediately – Bridgens remains sat upright in the corner, Peglar next to him with his head resting on his shoulder, and Collins is lying on his left side with a hand on Goodsir's knee where he sits next to him.

Quiet falls around them, and all around the camp.

They will endure, Goodsir promises himself. They have to.


	13. April 1847

Collins has been to the Arctic before, but on a whaling ship – never something on this scale. He joins the voyage as Second Master not only for the sake of the pay, but because he sees it as a chance to learn – years of changing conditions out in the open sea. And then the ice. It will be great experience.

He brings with him a leather-bound notebook in which he writes down every nugget of information that Mr Reid or anyone else bestows him. His handwriting is not particularly neat, but it is legible, and the point is not to read the notes over and over again, but rather, to learn in the moment of writing, as the mind processes the information that is being taught, converts it into movements of his hand as it shapes out the words on a page. It works for him, like that.

That first winter on Beechey alone has taught him a lot. He did not truly know ice, before coming here, and the learning curve of it has been steep and unforgiving. Still, although the sharpness and solitude of this place goes on, he is no longer at odds with his surroundings like he was a year ago. The ice and snow is not only an attack on his senses – it serves as protection as well sometimes.

He still remembers the frozen body of Billy Orren, reaching out towards him. But there is a thick layer of ice between Orren in the deep below and Collins now. He only wishes that the last memory he has of the man was a different one.

He and Mr Reid have taken to walking the stretch between Erebus and Terror almost daily as of late, as the month of maximum potential growth of the ice has finally been crossed. Soon, hopefully, it will make sense to look for signs of summer break up. Nothing appears to happen yet, though.

Today, he is not joined on the ice by Mr Reid, but by Goodsir, who shied away from partaking in kicking a ball around the ice by claiming that “Mr Collins here has promised to teach me about the ice.”

He has not. He does not even know if Goodsir actually wants to hear him talk about the ice, or if the man is simply using it as an excuse to get out of the game.

They walk not towards Terror, but instead in the direction of the wall of ice slowly building up towards the East. 

“Thank you,” Goodsir says after a little while.  
“Not fond of the game?”  
“Not particularly, no.” Goodsir stops quite abruptly. “Oh, but you may have wanted to join in! I am so sorry. You – it is alright, if you want to go back to them.”

Collins can feel the edges of his mouth be drawn up into a smile.

“Is this you trying to get out of my ice lessons now?”  
“O-of course not. I just thought there might be something more entertaining for you to do perhaps. You look like the sort of man who would enjoy that game – I hope you don't mind me saying so.”  
“I do not mind – and you're right. But I do not mind this either.”  
“I never really did that much rough play as a child.”  
“I believe you.”  
“I- I have two older brothers – I have already spoken to you of John. And a sister. And my younger brothers are four and seven years younger than I. So for years, I was the youngest sibling. Even after Archie and Robert – my younger brothers – were born, it took some time before they were old enough to join in on us playing. So I felt like the youngest sibling for quite a while. I would always end up with scraped knees or elbows, if I joined in on the others playing.”

Collins has a scraped knee right now, from slipping on the ladderway this morning, when he was trying to get out into the fresh air and daylight too quickly. The ache of it barely registers with him.

“I was sent to boarding school – when I was eleven.”  
“Oh. That must have been terribly lonely and crowded all at once.”  
“Yes.”  
“I take it that you have siblings too?”  
“Oh yes – five of them, by now. But they are all younger than me by at least nine years. My youngest sister is seven years old!”  
“Really? I cannot imagine how it must be growing up without siblings alongside me.”

Collins kicks his boot against a block of ice. They have reached the wall of it by now. Goodsir is beaming up at him. Collins does not think that he has ever met a kinder man, and that acknowledgement causes more pain than he would have imagined.

“I did in fact have a twin. George. He...passed, though.”  
“Oh my – my condolences.”  
“It is a long time ago.”  
“But still it is...a life, is it not?” Goodsir says.

Collins starts climbing up the wall of ice. Halfway up, he turns around to find Goodsir still at the base of the wall, looking uncertain. He offers Goodsir a hand, the movement slow and careful. Goodsir reaches towards it, clasps it. Collins pulls him up.

And Goodsir is right. Things are not necessarily simpler or lessened or easier to accept just because time has stretched on between a particular point in the past and now. There will always be reminders of past trauma, past incidents – they will remain, some of them like scars on the soul rather than scars on the physical body. He thinks he could perhaps tell Goodsir that and have the surgeon understand what he means. But for now, he would rather concentrate on the ice. On Goodsir.

And so he does teach Goodsir about different types of ice, and the conditions pertaining to it. He tells Goodsir of the salt content, of why the ice floats, the different types of ice and the shrinking and growing of it over the year, first-year-ice and multi-year-ice – everything that he knows that could possibly be of interest to the other man.

“You'll be able to do part of my job, soon.”  
“Never.”  
“Well...”

They stand shoulder to shoulder and look to the East, where there is nothing but layers of white. It is a strange place, this. Either endless day or endless night – neither of which sound particularly wishful. If he had to chose, Collins prefers the day, but even then, because of the position of the sun in the Arctic, there are a lot of shadows. He sees them out of the corner of his eyes, sometimes creeping closer, sometimes retreating. Perhaps it has always been like that, but up here, where there is so little to distract and everything is monotonous, the sense of the shadows are exacerbated. It does not matter if they are real or not – he perceives them, and therefore they _are_ , at least to him.

Goodsir is looking at him.

“What is it?”  
“I was just wondering what you are thinking about.”  
“Endless night.”

Goodsir's boots crunch on the ice as he turns fully towards Collins.

“Well, that's not good, is it?”  
“I don't know. Would you rather a Midnight Sun?”

Goodsir shrugs. “Well, I don't particularly enjoy fumbling around in the dark. Not that I don't enjoy it up here, either way. This place is beautiful. But perhaps it is easier to appreciate the light once it is countered by the dark every once in a while.”  
“Perhaps.”  
“What matters more than our surroundings are the people, though. Do you not think so?”  
“Maybe I am learning about that.”  
“I, certainly, am glad that you are here.”  
“Yes. I mean...I am glad that you are here too.”

When Collins is four, his family lives in Hastings, where his father is stationed. His mother takes him and George walking on the beach, as often as possible, tells stories of how it connects them to their father, who is rarely at home. She explains patiently how, by the sea, they can reach him.

It is only when looking back, from the safe and muted distance of years, that Collins can see how difficult it must have been for her – to raise them mainly on her own, rowdy and quick on their feet, dressed alike and running around the park or the beach or along the harbour, exposed to the full force of the southwest winds.

He remembers George, too, his brother and best friend, looking just like him – he remembers them building sand castles together, and fighting, too, the way young boys always seem to do, where they end up bruised and dirty, but, ultimately, tired and happy.

There are memories, like scenes in a book or play, that his mind can paint so visually accurate to this day. Nightmarish scenes, too, that are not conjured from sleep, but real life, from those deeply buried memories.

He remembers outrunning George along the beach, the soles of his feet aching against the rough pebbles beneath him once he stops his flight. The sun is shining. He supposes that George must have caught sight of something – a gull, perhaps, or a ship far out on the horizon – whatever it is, it leaves Collins alone on one end of the beach, their worn-out mother on the other end, and then George is that lost life somewhere in-between, not on dry sand and pebbles, but in the sea instead. Collins sees his hand and the top of his head as he tries to crawl back up onto the beach, away from the foaming edge of the water, fighting against the current of the waves.

But he is only four, they are both four, and helpless, dressed alike in striped summer clothing, and the waves are high, the current strong. He screams out – it must have been him and not George, who screams – and gets the attention of a few people as well as their mother.

It is too late, though.

To this day, there is this image in his head, this image of George gripping onto the loose pebbles and stones on the bed of the shoreline and failing to get any grasp, and then, abandoning that, George reaching out a hand to Collins, where he comes running towards his brother and fails to reach him before the pulling current of the waves drags George under and out to sea.

Sometimes Collins wonders if there really ever were two of them, or if it was simply himself that he watched get dragged out to sea somehow.


	14. June 1847

As he has grown older, Goodsir has realised that there are only a few very select topics, which he is not interested in at all. One of these is romantic relationships with women. 

And this fact, which he is aware that he should be ashamed of and burdened by, is instead the reason as to why he is particularly relieved once he realises that it is mainly himself, who is paying attention to the female Esquimaux – at least he trusts himself in his conduct with her, something which he cannot say of many of the other men, based on the things he overhears them say of women sometimes.

He is compiling a dictionary of the Netsilik language. He began it back at Disko Bay, where he accompanied Lieutenant Fairholme to an Inuit settlement. Over the last month, he has gradually built on it, and his own skill of the language, as he and Silna have conversed.

Her father, a shaman, is back on his feet, thankfully, but his breathing is inhibited somewhat, and it is clear that he is still in a great amount of pain. Goodsir does what he can for the man. As does Dr MacDonald and Peddie. Had it not been for Dr MacDonald, who accompanied Captain Crozier to Erebus' sick bay, the shaman would not have made it out alive. Goodsir had felt incompetent, forceps in hand, not reaching the bullet lodged in the man's lung. Dr Stanley had stood by, and done nothing, said nothing.

Goodsir may not be that experienced a surgeon yet, but at least he does not shy away from trying, when the alternative is death.

Dr MacDonald had spoken to him afterwards, gone through the steps of their eventual management – Dr MacDonald had inserted a trocar in the chest cavity to act as a drain, thereby releasing the pressure and strain that the blood-filled pleural sack was causing on the heart and the lung tissue itself. The bullet was still inside the man. It would remain there. Goodsir had listened carefully and learned, thankful of Dr MacDonald.

He always wants to learn – not just about anatomy and science, but about everything, how everything works. Silna teaches him about the Netsilik language, about Nunavut and the animals and creatures here. It is like having lived in the same house one's entire life and then some random day finding and opening a door to a room that one was unaware of – a room strangely different from those well-lived in other ones, but intriguing beyond comprehension, and, on the whole, on the floor-plan of the house, the new room makes absolute sense to exist.

He has asked Silna several times why she and her father are so accommodating of the men and the ships – when, as it is, her father's injury is due to them. She answers, plainly, that humans are not driven by evil.

Goodsir has to internally restrain himself from saying anything, from bringing her out of that view of the world, from taking that prelapsarian belief of goodness from her. It is not his place to do so, none of them are in any position to do so.

This is not their land.

In fact, Goodsir envies her that unspoilt view of the world. As much as he, too, thinks of individuals as good, he has begun to wonder if the same can be said about mankind in general.

If anything, being locked in place in the ice has given him time to think. He knows why he is here, he is the assistant surgeon, but he also knows what drove him to be here: his curiosity, his want of discovering new animals, new plants, new life – his need of knowing. And just like he has dressed up his real intentions for being here in a surgeon's uniform, so has the voyage itself been dressed up as a discovery service, when it is in fact not that but a product of a political and economical need for expanse, for asserting their nation across the globe.

He had begun to wonder if it is worth it, all the new discoveries that he makes along the way, to be part of this machine, which it ultimately is. He feels ashamed of himself sometimes, burdened, too – not by his own imperfect predilections, but by this: he is of little or no power in the larger span of things. This voyage would go on without him.

That is, it would, if they were not stuck in the ice.

Mr Blanky, whose own Netsilik is still far superior to Goodsir's own joins them every once in a while in their conversations about the landscape and the ice.

The shaman has no tongue – is has been sacrificed in some sort of ritual to what Goodsir deciphers to be a mythic creature – but the voiceless Esquimaux is still able to teach them things. Skill can be taught without the help of a language, by watching, or joining in, and they build an igloo not too far from the ships.

The shaman is still recovering, has little physical capacity as it is, and so Silna does most of the work. Mr Blanky and Collins help her with the blocks of ice, as does Goodsir. Collins does not understand Netsilik, apart from a few words here and there, but it does not matter – Mr Blanky and Goodsir translate if needed. In a selfish moment, of which he is later ashamed, Goodsir wonders whether Collins is there for the experience in general, or for him.

Collins carries most of the ice blocks, dense and heavy and terribly cold. Mr Blanky and Silna converse about the structures.

He is an attractive man, Collins, at least in Goodsir's eyes, or perhaps it is simply because he likes him as a person. But he likes Captain Fitzjames too, and Dr MacDonald, and many others, and he does not think of them as attractive. Not like this. Collins is height and muscle well proportioned, sturdily built. Everything Goodsir is not. And where he envies Silna her innocent view of the world – where he would like to possess that view himself – this is not the same. He does not want to _be like_ Collins, he realises, as he tunes out the sound of Blanky and Silna and instead focuses on intently watching Collins place a brick of ice onto the roof of the igloo – no, he simply _wants_ Collins.

Once the thought is formed, he flushes at the indecency of it – even if Collins did kiss him that night he returned from the sledge party.

He has never felt this way before. Perhaps there has never been time for it, perhaps the right person has simply not been around.

He is so caught up in his thoughts that he barely registers that the igloo is finished. When Collins comes to stand in front of him, he is brought back to the present, away from his thoughts. The others have already gone inside the structure.

“Well, what do you think?” Collins asks. His face is slightly reddened, and his smile reaches his eyes. His breathing pattern is rushed, as his body calms down after the intense work.  
“You are...wonderful.”  
“I meant what do you think about the igloo, Harry. But I will take the compliment.”

Goodsir can feel his face heating up. Collins reaches out a hand and places it on his hip.

“Don't be shy – I think it was sweet. Just...just as sweet as you.”

Yes, Goodsir thinks, and allows himself the thought, yes, he does want this man, and he is not ashamed of it.


	15. January 1848

They all go silently into the new year, as if no one wants to acknowledge the passing of time and what it means. They have been frozen in place for nearly two years now. Collins knows, despite not having any background knowledge to support this, that they will not get away from this place sailing, that the ice will not suddenly release them. It has its hold on the ships, and, almost as if it has a mind on its own, it will not let them go.

They cannot stay here, if they want to survive. It seems clear.

So there is no large communal celebration planned, unlike the previous years. The final eve of the year 1847 is spent like most other nights, except for a more generous ration of rum being served to each man and a much later curfew.

A few of them gather out on the ice, now that the infernal bear is nowhere in sight, to watch the aurora borealis and listen to Bridgens read aloud from an old poetry book. In times like this, when they are merely passing time, rather than following orders, the ranks of them all seem to matter less, so that they huddle close together for warmth and company indiscriminately. Peglar and Blanky stand shoulder to shoulder with their backs daringly against the high-reaching mount of ice, both sufficiently convinced that the bear will not return, and Lieutenant Little shares a particularly cushy seat of ice with Jopson. Drs MacDonald and Peddie, as well as Captains Crozier and Fitzjames, all stand at an angle to the wall of ice, Dr Peddie eyeing it suspiciously every once in a while. Opposite them, Collins stands next to Goodsir.

The only sound is that of Bridgens' voice and, every once in a while, the ice below and around them. It is too cold to be outside for long, but it is strangely nice, too, as if they are simply a gathering of old friends on a particularly cold winter's day.

The portable lamps cast a golden light across the ground and across all of their faces. It paints them less pale, more alive, somehow, so that Collins can almost pretend that they are all well, that they are not all being eaten up from the inside, burning off their own muscles and fat and brains, starving.

He wants this moment to last – not for it to continue on and on, but, rather, he wants it to last as a perpetual memory, an image that his mind can easily conjure up even years from now, should he be lucky enough to get out of this alive. There is something about this moment, this quiet celebration, which feels true and honest and precious.

He wants to remember this.

Goodsir is swaying slightly beside him, a smile on his face as he listens intently to Bridgens. It is strange, feeling what he feels for Goodsir. He wonders if it is an emotion that would have blossomed anywhere else but up here. In a way, he hopes so – that it is something universal, between the two of them, and not defined by this place, these certain circumstances.

It keeps him going, the thought of them somewhere else, of what it might be like.

Goodsir turns towards him, and their eyes meet. Apparently, the story is over but Collins has already tuned it out some time ago.

He looks lovely, Collins thinks, and is overwhelmed, all of a sudden, with a rush of feelings for the surgeon.

He had never even contemplated being with another man, before Goodsir came along. But it is not the circumstances, the environment, Collins thinks – it is Goodsir himself, whether here or anywhere else.

The difference in temperature between the outside and the lower deck is astounding and it takes a while for the body to get used to all of a sudden being inside the ship. It does not help, Collins supposes, that Goodsir is straddling him and leaning down to pepper his neck with kisses. Wherever they are touching, a scorching heat is developing.

When he suggested that they spend the night together for warmth, this was not exactly what he expected, but, certainly, he is not complaining.

Since it is the last night of the year, although there is no planned celebration, the men have been allowed to stay up late. Collins can hear them, singing and enjoying themselves, and he hopes the noise of their gathering drowns out any noise from Goodsir's cabin.

They should not be doing this, and they are not, not really – although it is becoming increasingly difficult to stop, each time.

He changes his grip from Goodsir's thighs to his buttocks, which, in turn, causes Goodsir to sigh and then latch onto his neck, sucking hard. He fights against the urge to press his crotch up against Goodsir, in fact, he tries so very much to be proper, to respect any boundaries that Goodsir might have, and every time they do something like this, he comes a little bit closer to failing.

This time, though, he is not to blame for any development into indecency. When Goodsir leans back, seemingly to inspect whatever he has done to Collins' neck, he also happens to grind down hard onto Collins' crotch.

“Christ, Harry!”

Goodsir looks proud – smug, almost. His right hand is slowly travelling towards the hem of Collins' trousers.

The men are still singing loudly back in their berthing space. Collins has never wanted the men to continue singing as much as he does now.

He sits up as best he can with Goodsir straddled across him, sneaking his arms around the surgeon's back and kissing him deeply. There is an awkward moment of shuffling around, of getting Goodsir onto his back and Collins on top of him, where they have to move around one another in the tiny space of the bunk – a shuffle preferable to moving apart for the change in position. Collins bangs his head against the wall shared with the warrant officers' mess room, and he silently hopes that no one is in there.

He quickly recovers and leans down to take Goodsir's lower lip into his mouth, sucking hard and getting a moan in return.

Like everything else that seems to have happened between them so far, it sets in motion a series of rather enjoyable events, culminating in them both coming for the first time in each other's company, _together_ , more or less still in their clothes and with Collins' left hand clasped securely over Goodsir's mouth.

When he finally opens his eyes and lifts his head to look Goodsir in the eyes, he finds the other man smiling sweetly up at him. It is so very easy to return that smile.

“You will let me know if I am crushing you?”  
“Yes. But you are not. I find that I rather enjoy having you atop of me.”

He finds Goodsir's hand and interweaves their fingers, leans down to kiss him. There is a calmness between them now, in their kisses and in whatever state of mind they seem to occupy together.

Collins cannot decipher whether it is his own heartbeat that he feels or if it is instead Goodsir's. 

Considering the state of their situation, he eventually gets up to go back to his own cabin to change out of his clothes. He kisses Goodsir one final time and slowly slides the door open.

He reaches his own cabin just as Captain Crozier, of all people, exits the great cabin with a bottle of whiskey in each hand and promptly vomits all over the floor just outside it.

The Captain looks up at Collins, and, slurring his words, says, “You look about as fucked up as I feel.”

The man then proceeds to stagger past Collins, patting him sympathetically on the shoulder on his way. Had he not already seen Captain Crozier as drunk as can be, he would have worried about the man going out into the cold on his own. But the Captain is a determined soul, his spirit not easily crushed, Collins knows, and the Captain will find himself safely back on Terror in a short while, no doubt.

If Collins were a better man he would have mopped the mess up himself, but he is exhausted, and happy, and he has come drying inside his underwear and on his skin, and, if anything, vomit is the last thing he wants to associate this night with. He gathers that the fluid is far away enough that the smell will not reach neither his cabin nor Goodsir's. And so he turns a blind eye.

The next day, when Lieutenant Little comes with a requisition for several bottles of whisky, on behalf of Captain Crozier, Collins is silently amused. Little follows him to the storage room, a sheepish look on his face.

“Well, here it is, sir.”  
“Thank you, Mr Collins.”

Little shifts his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. “Look, I don't mean to... I... Are you alright, Mr Collins?”  
“Yes? Yes – why would I not be?”

The Lieutenant points towards his own neck, as if that explains it all.

“You have some rather furious looking skin blotches here and...here. I think maybe you should talk to Dr Goodsir about it.”  
“Oh!”

Collins reaches up, tries to pull his collar up to hide his neck.

“It might be nothing, I don't want to worry you unduly. But I have, ah, observed them on a few of the men. I suggest that it is better to discuss it with Goodsir, just in case.”  
“C-certainly. I will do that, sir. Thank you for the kind advice.”

And he will – discuss it with Goodsir, that is – discuss not to leave any marks on one another where they might be seen.

He is not usually prone to blushing, but he can feel his face heat up.

They gather up the bottles. Before exiting the hold, Lieutenant Little stops in his tracks, turns back to Collins.

“Yes,” he says, “Yes, do talk to Goodsir about the love bites – a bit much, really, isn't it?”

Little looks absolutely serious for a few seconds before bursting into laughter. Collins is both outraged and embarrassed, but he, too, starts laughing when the other man claps him on his shoulder and then leaves his hand there for support, almost unbalanced as he is from laughing.

“Good Lord, what has become of us?” Little says once their laughter has settled again. He is wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. There is a fondness in his voice, though, as if he is oddly at peace with this new information that he apparently thinks he has acquired.

“I think...” Collins starts, hesitantly, “I think this place strips us bare, somehow, of all our societal built-in illusions, and, if nothing else, we are all the better for it. I thought about it yesterday, too, out there in the snow, as we were all stood side by side around the small light and listened to the words read aloud – something about that moment will last with me, I think, the simple humanity of it. We have nothing here, we are nothing here – except that we have one another and we _are_ , then, _something_ to one another, by definition. I may not have a home, not really – I know where I was born and grew up for a while, before moving to a new place, and then later away to boarding school – what I mean to say is that I have no physical home to speak of. But yesterday, I realised that I have something of a sense of a home anyway, only it is not a physical, palpable place, it is this sense, something we uphold together. I... I like us, if this is what this horrible place has made of us.”

Lieutenant Little sets down his box of whiskey. “Damn,” he says, “Was that what went through your head yesterday?”  
“Yes.”  
“I thought you were just hopelessly in love.”

Collins smiles, and Little returns it.

“You can call me Edward, by the way. I think it is long overdue that we drop the formalities.”  
“Henry.”

Little nods. He seems in no hurry to get out of the storage room now.

“You know, it – is has been a while since I have had that good a laugh. In fact, I have been having a rather miserable time here ever since we were frozen stuck. The last time I had a proper good laugh was when Erebus sailed the wrong way for most of the day – were you responsible for that, too, by any chance?”  
“No,” Collins laughs, “I cannot take credit for that.”  
“Shame. Still, I hope we eventually find something more to laugh about.”  
“So do I.”

Little nods again, then bends down to pick up the box in front of him.

“Well, I better get this to Captain Crozier.”  
“The supply will run out, at some point.”  
“I know. He knows it, too. But he will think of something.”

They carry the boxes up, into the perpetual, dark twilight, and Collins thinks once again of it – how they cannot stay here, if they are to survive. Little knows it, too, he thinks, from the way the man talks and behaves.

It is 1848. They are dying here. They cannot stay.


	16. December 1846

By Christmas Day, a huge tent has been built on the ice a few hundred yards from the ships. Goodsir looks at the structure in awe, wondering where all the materials to build such a festive environment came from.

Last year, on Beechey, they had celebrated Christmas, too, but it had been aboard either ship, separately, and in much more modest surroundings.

This year, they celebrate all together, mixing and mingling across several tables.

Goodsir ends up next to Peglar and Dr MacDonald, as they dine on the courses served by the cooks. There is even Christmas pudding.

Later, once Franklin's speech is over – a rather long and tedious one about how Christian traditions bring immense value to the darkness of all winters – the celebrations start in earnest. The men start singing carols, and there are games and entertaining bits, too.

And it is odd, but beautiful – how they all come together like this, singing and dancing and sharing stories from past Christmas celebrations back home or from across the globe on other ships, but most of all, it is a bit overwhelming.

It makes Goodsir miss his family. A longing for home aches in his chest, until it is difficult to concentrate on anything but the bittersweet nostalgia of Christmases past.

When Goodsir goes outside to catch a bit of fresh air, he all but runs right into Mr Blanky, Lieutenant Little and Mr Collins, where they are stood outside the main entrance to the tent.

“Ah, Dr Goodsir! And so the trio of whiskers is complete.” Blanky exclaims, sounding drunk on either joy or alcohol. The two other men turn their faces towards him, nodding, and Goodsir returns their greetings.

“I- I...just needed a bit of air.”  
“Aye – but you're part of it now, the trio. I'm off,” Blanky says and packs away his pipe and discards a handful of small stones into a nearby bucket.

Lieutenant Little, for once, looks calm and unworried, a smile on his face. 

“I did not mean to...interrupt anything,” Goodsir tries, and is rewarded with a laugh from Little.  
“Well, you may not have intended to, but you're part of it now.”  
“I beg pardon, sir?”

He looks between the two men and realises that they are both holding pebbles in their hands.

“It's a game,” Collins says. He is slightly hoarse, still recovering from an inflammation of his throat. “Throw the pebble in the bucket.”  
“Oh. Oh, I can do that!”

They play for a while, taking turns aiming at the bucket across of the entrance and then taking a step backwards each time they land a pebble in the bucket. It is a silly game, but it takes Goodsir's mind off everything, off his homesickness.

They are all rather good at it, it turns out.

“It must be some quality of the whiskers,” Collins laughs.  
“Certainly. Or the dark hair,” adds Little.

Both of the men look at Goodsir then – to supply a sentence, he understands. 

“O-or... Or the handsome faces.”

He cringes inwardly, but then Lieutenant Little laughs.

“Agreed,” he says and claps them both on their shoulders. It is strange, seeing the typically severe man laugh. Strange, but good. Goodsir releases a breath that he was not aware he was holding.

“If only my aim with a weapon was half as good,” Little jokes and shakes his head, just as Captain Crozier's face appears in the entrance of the tent.

The Captain looks exasperated. “Irving is singing again.”  
“Blasted,” Little says, looking his usual stressed self, “I will be there immediately, sir.”

Captain Crozier nods and retreats back into the tent, Little following close behind. Goodsir looks towards Collins, and the man makes a confused expression, shrugging his shoulders.

“I'm...not certain that I want to know what is going on in there,” Collins says after some time, matter-of-factly.  
“No. I-it is cold out here, though.”  
“Do you want to go back inside?”  
“Not particularly, no. They are being awfully loud – if it is anything like earlier, it is impossible to carry any conversation inside.”  
“We could walk for a bit, to get some warmth back into our feet – or go back to Erebus. And just...talk, if you'd want to? It has been a while.”

Goodsir nods.

The guard duty has been split so that all the men have the possibility of joining in on the festivities.

As Goodsir and Collins approach the ship, Hartnell is the first to greet them. He seems initially confused as to why the two of them have decided to abandon the celebrations, but accepts the excuse of Collins feeling ill easily enough, perhaps aided by the unusual raspiness of his voice. Sergeant Bryant looks less convinced.

“Merry Christmas,” Goodsir says, before descending down to the lower deck.

They sit on Goodsir's bunk, stretching their legs out towards one another, backs against opposite walls, and talk for hours. It is easier than Goodsir imagined, finding subjects to converse about.

Collins tells him of all the training that went into diving – how uncomfortable it had felt at first, with the weight of the suit and the pressure of the water from all sides, but also of all the things he has seen underneath the surface – the animals there, fish and sea nettles and crabs, and, in the Channel, where the suit was initially tested, the bottles and random belongings too.

In return, Goodsir tells Collins of his own studies, the dissection of the same animals that Collins have observed swim past him – the beauty of even their microscopic parts, the tiny units of which they are built. The other man listens, asks questions where needed, and looks at Goodsir at if he is bestowing him some previously unknown truth about the conditions of life.

Goodsir rather likes it.

“Do you give any lectures, back home? For students.”  
“Not really. A few here and there. My brother holds lectures, though.”  
“You should consider it, once we return. I think you would be good at it.”  
“Thank you.”

Collins smiles and moves to lie more down, stretches his legs out further. One of his feet press against Goodsir's thigh.

“What do you do, back home, then, if not lectures? Are you part of a practice?”  
“No, I...I am – I mean, I _was_ the Curator of the Surgeons' Hall Museum. And I do scientific studies. A bit of practice, too, but it is the exception, rather than the norm.”  
“This is in Edinburgh?”  
“Yes. My family lives close by. I grew up in a small coastal town – Anstruther.”  
“And you are close? With your family, I mean.”  
“Very. At times like this, I miss them greatly. Though you are a good distraction, I must admit.”

They stare at one another across the small space. Goodsir is aware that this is unlike any friendship he has had before, it feels different, is not so much a friendship as...something else. Collins must be aware of it too, he thinks, although it could just be that friendships on expeditions such as this one, are like this – more intense, charged with something else.

Collins is still looking right at him, a soft expression on his face. Somewhere above them, the men on guard duty stomp around on the deck, probably attempting to get some warmth into their bodies.

He must know, too, Goodsir thinks, he must feel it too.

“I almost forgot – I have something for you. Wait here!” Collins says and gets out of the bunk. He disappears out of the cabin, only to return a few minutes later.

“Merry Christmas.”

He comes to stand in front of Goodsir, holding out something wrapped in a cloth.

“It is not much. I mean, after all, what is there to come into possession of, up here? But I found it, back on Beechey, and it is...”

Goodsir unwraps the present – a small, black pebble with a hole in it, cold and solid in the palm of his hand.

“It's a hag stone. Do you know of their tradition?”  
“I'm afraid not.”  
“Well, I cannot say that I honestly believe a great deal in any of it – it is all too superstitious if you ask me – but legend has it that it protects a sailor and his ship...although, I was talking to Mr Bridgens about it, about what the stone means, and he said that, apparently, it also represents healing and the banishing of illness. I find that rather fitting.”  
“Indeed. Thank you. Thank you so very much, Henry. Although, I am sorry to inform that I have not had the mind to find a present for you.”

Collins sits down next to him on the bunk.

“That's alright. I did not expect anything. I just wanted to give you something.”  
“You're a...a very good man.”  
“Not even half as good as you.”

He sounds earnest, when he says it, as if it is meant more as a compliment to Goodsir than a self-deprecating commentary on himself.

Goodsir reaches out towards him, curls his hand around Collins' upper arm.

“Will you stay a bit longer?” he asks.  
“I can. But it is getting rather late.”  
“I suppose it is.”  
“I do enjoy this, though. Being in your company, I mean. I don't think I have ever talked that much with anyone.”  
“You know – back when we were children, my brother and I, a-and sometimes a friend of ours, too, we would turn off the light and go to bed, tricking our parents into thinking we were sleeping as we were supposed to, but instead we would just talk for hours and hours across the stretch of darkness – before eventually falling asleep.”  
“That sounds like fun.”  
“So – will you stay?”

For a moment, Collins is silent.

It is strange – Goodsir muses later – that it is in watching Collins and the uncertainty that washes across his face, it is in _that precise moment_ that Goodsir knows for certain that Collins feels it too. For why else should he be in doubt, why else would he appear to be weighing the pros and cons? They do not have to openly talk about it, Goodsir's childhood anecdote gives them the option to avoid that danger – but under any other circumstance than this _thing_ between them, the answer to Goodsir's question should be to decline, and to do so immediately.

“Alright.”

They make to get ready for bed, and brush their teeth in silence. Collins goes back to his own room and deposits his coat and boots, before returning to Goodsir's cabin, yawning. He moves to get underneath the blanket and, surprisingly, without any prompt from Goodsir, turns to lie with his head next to Goodsir's own, instead of in the opposite direction.

He then reaches up to snuff out the light, casting the cabin in pitch darkness.

They shuffle for a while on the small bunk, making themselves sufficiently comfortable. It feels nothing like in Goodsir's nostalgic memories, but he did not expect it to. Perhaps because they are adults, perhaps because the bunk is narrow, so that they have to press up close to one another, and, definitely, Goodsir thinks, because they, together, are different.


	17. September 1848

Sometimes, Goodsir wonders how the other group is faring, if they have had more luck than his own, finding help, food, shelter – anything. It is difficult to imagine any worse luck, although, by now, experience tells him not to rule it out.

He does, however, not second-guess his own choice, to go northeast. The direction matters, certainly, but it is the company that can make or break them, in the end.

They are all tired, by now. Goodsir would have imagined that his muscles would swell, from all that dragging and carrying, but he does not find that his build has changed – at least not in that direction. There is not enough sustenance for them. If they are not falling ill by infections or poisoning, they are slowly breaking down in other ways.

This evening, the hunting party led by Captain Crozier has managed to kill a seal. It feels like a small feast, shared between them.

He had wondered, a long time ago, why the Esquimaux people did not get scurvy from their rather plain menu. But Silna taught him about their customs with handling the meat of their pray, and although she did not understand the science behind it, it answered his questions – by eating the meat raw, rather than cooking it, they preserved the nutrients better.

So however unpleasant it is, he asks that they not cook the meat from their hunt.

It feels savage, somehow, when one is used to finer dinners on fragile porcelain plates, but he supposes that it is rather fitting also – they are in foreign territory, they are not back home. In the end, there is no reason to uphold an illusion, and is is not better to face the reality – and observe, listen, _learn_ – without imposing their beliefs and habits here? The group seems to agree.

Tomorrow, they will leave this camp and walk on. As far as the eye can see, everything is still white. There is no saying how long it will last. It is blinding, almost.

Goodsir tends to Peglar and Jopson – they are, he believes, still in the early stages of it, and he hopes that the seal meat will do them good. They are back out on the open ice, now – it must be possible to find further game here.

He tucks the two men in comfortably, and, as he leaves the tent, Captain Crozier enters it. The Captain looks tired, but determined as always. Goodsir is silently thankful that the man is with them – in spite of his rather tough exterior, there is a compassion burning inside the man like a flame, and it gives out warmth to all of the remaining men in this cold and hostile environment. It keeps them all going, he thinks. It is not that Captain Crozier is the perfect leader – Goodsir does no longer believe that any such one exists – but none of them are perfect, they are human beings with all the feelings and flaws that follow. No, what makes Captain Crozier the best leader for this – this voyage – is just that: he is human, and he lets it show.

Collins catches his arm as he exits the sick tent, and Goodsir looks up.

“Henry?”  
“I... Walk with me, please.”

Goodsir nods. He feels dread building up inside him, as if he already knows what is coming. It has been stalking them out, Collins especially, almost as prey, for a while.

The twilight is coming – perpetual night, polar night.

They walk outside of the camp only by some steps, but enough that if affords them some sense of privacy. Conditions can change fast out here, there is no guarantee that they will not be caught out in a terrible fog with no means of finding their way back to the tents, if they stray farther away.

“I... I might be falling ill, too,” Collins says now, head held low, as if there is any shame in those words. “Like Peglar, or Jopson is – like _Morfin_ and the others were.”

Goodsir reaches out towards him, grabs hold of his upper arm through the thick glove he is wearing.

“Harry, you are not. We went through the examinations yesterday, and that is not it. Now, I do not deny that you-”

“I am not alright, Harry. I'm...sick of... _everything_ , I suppose.”  
“I know. I know.”  
“I think the daylight has helped, certainly, but even so, I feel like I have accumulated so much of the darkness inside me, over the years up here, that if you were to cut me open like one of the corpses that you examine, darkness, rather than blood, would pour out. It is everywhere, like a great, grey fog that I cannot find my way out of. I walk around inside it, blindly reaching out for someone, in hope that they will find me and drag me out of it, but there is no one, no one, nothing helps. For a while, every now and then, the fog clears on its own, and I think, then, I have finally made it out. But it returns – it always _returns_. I fear that it will eventually return, and remain...for good.”

Goodsir in uncertain how to proceed, uncertain which words, if any, can bring comfort. But is is all he has, words.

“We... I mean to say – I think that we all feel it, too, although not as intensely as you. I acknowledge that. And it is a burden I would share with you, if I could, but I do not know how to. I am at a loss. And it pains me to admit that.”

Collins nods, coughs. “Do you think... Do you think I will ever go back to the way I used to be – without...feeling like _this_?”  
“I don't know. I think this place will be part of us forever. I think what happens up here will follow us, like nightmares – but it will be only that, _only nightmares_.”  
“It feels awfully real to me.”  
“The mind is a powerful constructor. It has built all of you. It can tear you down, too, owing to external circumstances or trauma. Some men react by shutting down completely – I am certain you must have heard of them – others by going insane, I suppose. With you, it is something else, like...a melancholia of sorts. But you see – it is there for a reason, however unreasonable it might seem. You are simply reacting to our circumstances. That is not folly. It would – it would be folly not to react.”

Goodsir watches Collins blink away the traces of tears that have appeared in his eyes. This is a horrible place to cry, outside, in the freezing cold. The tears run from warm to frozen in mere seconds, when they spill – Goodsir knows this from his own experience – so as to remain on the skin or in the eyelashes as perpetual reminders of some pain or sorrow. Collins reaches out, then, pulls him into an embrace, and they stand like that for some time, holding on to one another tightly.

“If the fog comes, and you cannot find your way out again, I will look for you there,” Goodsir whispers, “You may not be able to see me, but perhaps it is some comfort to know that I will be there, and _I will find you_.”

Collins falls into a deep sleep, after that, once they return to their tent. Goodsir is glad to have provided some comfort, however little, to the other man, but it has left him in some strange space of mind himself. Before falling asleep himself, he goes back outside, hoping that the cold will somehow clear his head. He feels excruciatingly drained.

Captain Fitzjames is out there too, standing by one of the boats and looking up into the sky, until he turns his head to the sound of Goodsir's boots across the ice.

“Dr Goodsir! Couldn't sleep either?”  
“No, sir, I... Too many thoughts, I suppose.”  
“I hear you. That, and I needed some fresh air. Imagine that!”

Goodsir nods, approaching carefully. He tries to smile, but he knows that the smile does not reach his eyes – he can see it in the way Captain Fitzjames frowns at him.

“Is something the matter?”  
“No, sir. Just tired.”  
“You do know, by now, that you can _tell me_ – don't you, Dr Goodsir?”

Before he can stop it, tears are spilling and freezing down his face. For a man with a reputation among the men of being somewhat aloof, Fitzjames is surprisingly quick to draw him into his arms and hold him there, brushing his hands up and down Goodsir's back.

He does not ask any further questions about the matter pertaining to Goodsir's outburst of emotion, simply rocks him gently in his arms, lets Goodsir cry it out against his chest.

Goodsir is grateful, if slightly embarrassed.

But they all have their limits, especially out here – they are all tired, and drained, and afraid, even if they do not say so out loud. Goodsir is afraid – of a good many things. He is afraid of the bears, and the ice, and the knowledge of being inadequate, of what will happen to them eventually, of how long they can still uphold their hope – afraid that it will turn into an illusion, after a while.

“Do you remember the sea creatures?” Fitzjames says, once Goodsir has finally stopped his sobbing. Fitzjames is still holding him and makes no movement as to let go. He does not wait for Goodsir to answer, though, simply continues, “I always found them fascinating, those luminescent ones back in Greenland especially. To think that such a small, undemanding, and seemingly insignificant creature casts such light that it can brighten the darkness around it. Yet, in its existence, of being just like it is, it illuminates also the truth: that it thereby cannot be insignificant.”

Goodsir nods. He thinks to suggest that the man should start writing poetry, if he does not already, but remains silent.

“We should get some sleep. Long day tomorrow,” Captain Fitzjames finally says, and they step apart.  
“Yes. And – and thank you, sir.”  
“No, thank you, Dr Goodsir.”

When, back in the tent, Goodsir uses a dampened cloth to wash the remains of the tears off of his face, the cloth comes away bloodied. His heartbeat starts racing, and he goes to search for a shard of the broken mirror in the trunk. In the low lamp light, careful so as to not awaken the others, he examines his own face, but he cannot find any source of the blood – no wound, no scratches or simple puncture marks are visible – only a smear of dark red across his forehead. His pulse settles as he realises that it is not his own blood, then picks up again once he realises what this means. It is someone else's. It is Fitzjames'.


	18. August 1849

The first time they make love, in a more intimate sense, is also the only time that they do so quietly. They are at Goodsir's shared flat, with other people sleeping in their rooms down the hall, when it happens.

It is not something which has ever come up in conversation between them – a difficult topic to breach, and not only because of the illegality of it – although, by now, Collins has thought about it, about the act, and them, several times, even without being prompted by Goodsir's body against his own. He is only human, after all.

Goodsir is the kind of wonderful person who turns shy at the slightest compliment. It is fascinating, in fact, and his reaction to compliments has not lessened over time. Collins once told him that his eyes are beautiful, and the man proceeded to blush for several minutes, during which he seemed unable to meet Collins' own eyes.

So Collins is in fact rather shocked, as well as more than pleased, when Goodsir this evening, as they share kisses in bed, pulls him on top of him and whispers, “Have me.”

Of course, that sentence could mean other things, Collins supposes, but in this context, it is difficult to ascribe it any other meaning. Especially as Goodsir follows it by spreading his legs apart and around Collins' waist.

“Y- you mean-”  
“Yes. Please. Unless you do not want to.”

It is summer, and it is excruciatingly hot outside. They sleep only in their undergarments, and on account of their position against one another, Collins is certain that Goodsir can clearly feel how very much he would like to.

“No, no, I do. It is only that – are you certain?”  
“Yes.” Goodsir's expression is mild. “Why wouldn't I be?”  
“I don't know. Well, what if I hurt you?”  
“I would let you know if you did. But I don't think you will. I, erm, have been thinking about it for a...for a while, and I have...well...researched it.”  
“Researched?”  
“Yes. Researched it, erm, on myself.”  
“Fuck! Harry...” Collins rests his forehead against Goodsir's.  
“Hey, now don't be crass!”

And so they end up in the same position, the rest of their clothes shed, most of the time kissing or looking into one another's eyes, as Collins takes him, whispering reassuring words throughout, his voice mixing with the other man's soft breaths and moans.

He can feel Goodsir clench around him, and Goodsir's hands on his back, nails scratching slightly, pulling him close. He can feel the sweat forming wherever their bodies meet. And he can feel something that is neither him nor Goodsir alone – something that is instead _them_ , somehow, in this moment, and perhaps in every moment onwards from here, too, something that is entirely new to him but now spreads across his body, settles in every part of him as if it has always belonged there. More than anywhere else though, it can be felt deep in his chest.

Goodsir's curls are unruly, dark against the white sheets, and for a short moment, a memory of Goodsir in the snow flashes to the foreground of Collins' mind, before it fades again. There are a thousand memories then that follow, of Goodsir and him, always Goodsir and him, the two of them together, from the beginning and until now – the memories flash quickly in and out between one another at random, out of chronological order, perfect in all their imperfections, and the path is oddly clear throughout – every one single of these situations leads to now.

He leans his head forward, presses his mouth to the place between Goodsir's neck and shoulder, presses his entire body closer to Goodsir's, thrusts harder as the other begins to moan more continuously.

Goodsir's nails are digging into his back.

He bites down, then, on the place between Goodsir's neck and shoulder, above the collar bone, and Goodsir tenses for a moment, then finds his release. Collins follows, in the same way he will always follow Goodsir anywhere.


	19. May 1848

Morfin's death sets in motion a series of disturbing events in camp, one after another, like when a pebble is thrown into a pond of still water, causing a ring of waves.

A group led by Hickey tries to run off with one of the boats and much of the equipment, when a thick fog is descending on the camp, but they are ultimately subdued not only by the officers, but by a white bear, which comes out of the fog and snatches Manson, dragging away the large man and disappearing back into the nothingness.

The rebellious men are cuffed to a chain, until any punishment is decided, with Marines posted to guard them. Hickey, bruised and unnervingly calm, makes a long speech claiming that Captain Crozier had planned to abandon them all, fleeing the ship to ensure his own survival, mocking the man. Captain Crozier, surprisingly, lets him finish his entire speech.

The camp, as a whole, is pretty shaken up after the events. Men are talking with low voices in small groups, looking with distrust at others walking by.

The atmosphere is unnerving, an unrest brewing, Goodsir feels it.

They spend an extra night at the camp.

The next morning, something is different too, although the men in general look a little more at rest, by now. But Goodsir can read it in Captain Fitzjames' face, even before Captain Crozier climbs atop one of the boats and call the men to gather around him – something has changed since the day before.

“Men,” Captain Crozier says, voice loud and clear, “In spite of the claims made by Mr Hickey yesterday, it cannot have escaped your attention, I should hope, that I had not just my own, but _your_ best intentions in mind, when I ordered the rescue party to set out, and likewise when I ordered the ships abandoned and planned for us _as one group_ to trek south to Back's Fish River. But the events of yesterday has led me to believe that at least some of you distrust my intentions and ability to lead you to safety – be it the size of the one group that we are or the direction of travel.”

The man looks tired, as if he has spent the entire night awake, weighing the possible options for dealing with the uproar.

“Being in a group is only beneficial as long as the people in it _want_ to be part of that group – otherwise, there is a risk of counter-productivity, which affects not only those that cause it, but all in that said group. Therefore, I have come to the decision that, should anyone want to, they can make up smaller groups as they please, to go on from here not under my command, but their own – on the condition that the groups gather a sufficient number of men to receive a boat dedicated to their trek.”

The crowd is silent. Goodsir feels Collins grab hold of his arm. Around them, the other men's faces vary – some seem shocked, uncertain, others are strangely unreadable. Neptune is walking in-between them, sniffing for food, as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening.

“Provisions, maps, and all other materials needed will be provided – divided and distributed evenly as according to the number of men in each group. Most importantly, this will mean that several routes are available going forth. Captain Fitzjames will go through the main potential options in detail in a little while, but, in summary, they are: to trek inland across King William Island, or alternatively trek on the coastline of King William Island, and, in both cases, either over land or across the ice down south to Back's Fish River approximately 300 miles away – if finding no source of help here, a further trek can be made across the mainland to a known Hudson Bay Outpost – adding on approximately 1000 miles, across which there should be plenty of opportunities for hunting game. Another option is to turn north, and retrace our sail route over the ice up along Peel Sound, to the west coast of Somerset Island and across it to its north-eastern point, where any rescue mission by ships will potentially pass by – this is a trek of approximately 500 miles, and it should be made clear that it is mere _speculation_ whether any rescue mission will arrive, as no one knows of our misfortune or position. Captain Fitzjames and I will gladly give advice on any route chosen, and should any man want to stick with us, he is welcome to do so. Your own fates are, now more than ever, in your own hands, _if you should wish for that_ , but rest assured that I will do my best to carry the rest of you. Whichever direction yields the least goers, I will be going in that direction – in an attempt to cover that direction for any way of rescue. Ultimately, the groups successful in reaching help _must bring into attention_ the other groups' planned treks, so that in the end, rescue will come to all – irrespective of the direction chosen. By tonight, groups must have been formed and directions chosen.”

The day goes by in a rush, even though they do not do much throughout it. Goodsir can feel his head ache, though, from thinking and worrying.

Of course, over the past years, he has been friendlier with some than others, and so friend groups already exist – people that he cares for and knows and trusts. They spend the day discussing what to do, and by the end up it, some agreement seems to have been made. He knows that Dr Stanley will go south, to Back's Fish River – joining Le Vesconte and Hodgson as well as De Voeux and several of the seamen in one group. It is clear that Hickey will lead the group of rebels south as well, once their restraints are relieved. Goodsir agrees with Collins, Bridgens, Peglar, Irving, and Little to go to Somerset Island, hoping beyond hope that the amount of time during which no one in England has heard from them by now is enough to get the Admiralty to dispatch ships for a rescue mission.

It is no easy choice, however. Either way seems almost claustrophobic in its size – such large stretches of nothingness to walk across.

If they are wrong, in their choice to go north, it will be their death. Then again, the same can perhaps be said of going south.

“We will make it – we have to,” Collins says to him, before they prepare to go outside to the general assembly to hear of the planned groups of directions.  
“Do you really think so, or are you just trying to make me feel better?”  
“Both. I suppose that I am also trying to keep up my own hope.”  
“Yes.”  
“Which is not easy.”  
“Nothing is, out here. But maybe it becomes easier to maintain that hope, once we start moving in earnest – at least we will be going somewhere, rather than just remain stuck in the ice.”

Collins nods. Streaks of grey have started to appear in his whiskers, as if he is going prematurely grey from worrying – Goodsir wonders if that is even a thing that can happen.

“It will be alright.”

When they set off the next morning, a strange feeling of finality rises up in Goodsir – this is it, this first step north, and then all of the many thousand next to follow, will determine the rest of his life. At least, wherever they are going, wherever they will end up, it is not this very place, where they spent years stuck in the ice, where so many men perished,. This place, where they disturbed the lives of the native people.

They are a small group, setting out across the ice, but between them, they have more experience with Arctic conditions than any of the other groups. He looks to Fitzjames, walking next to him, a determined look on his face, and thinks the man better one than Sir Franklin ever was, because Franklin was a statue – solid, and distant, apart from the all. Fitzjames is real, is among them, giving everything of himself, sweat, and blood, and tears. And Crozier is the same, even if opposite – has the same qualities to him, a stubbornness and a cleverness pertaining not to subjects learned in school, but something else, some fundamental instinct of surviving, of being, persevering.

Things will be alright. They have to.


	20. February 1847

The mind is a fascinating thing, really, Collins muses. It constitutes him, and yet the mind also has a mind of its own somehow. He never wants to conjure up the nightmares, and still he has no say over it.

After a while, up here, with everything that has happened, the mind has more than enough material to work with – but it seems to always boil down to one theme.

The moment that the hand goes still is the worst, because of what the stillness represents. And so that moment is worse than whatever comes after, whether it be a flood of waves crashing over Collins himself, water forcing its way down his lungs, or the sensation of being dragged down into an intense, cold, dark, bottomless abyss.

Back in September – when the ships first froze in position and the same kind of stillness from his dreams overtook the movement of Erebus – he awoke from one of his nightmares in the middle of the oddly silent night and knew that something from them had followed him back to his state of being awake. It was there with him, in his cabin, some preternatural sense of dread and death. It had chased him out of bed and ultimately up the ladderway and into the frozen world. It was only when he saw Goodsir, standing by the bow of the ship, breaths coming out in white puffs, that his panic ceded.

Much has happened, since then.

He wakes from that familiar nightmare months later again. He thinks of it as familiar, but something has changed now, the hand reaching towards him is neither George's nor Billy's – it belongs to Goodsir.

Collins has been able to cope with the nightmares alright until this point, because they only awaken a familiar panic in him – he has already lived through it, felt those emotions of grief for a brother, for a young man under his charge, and so they are, by now, even in the nightmares, oddly muted. He has not had to deal with the loss of Goodsir before – in fact, he cannot even being to imagine how it would feel – and so the nightmare, this nightmare tonight, frightens him exceedingly.

He focuses on his breath, attempting to steady it, but this is a thing that cannot be forced. For some reason, he is afraid to turn on his lamp, but the darkness of his cabin feels thick and palpable almost, as if there is someone or something there, in the cabin with him, watching him. He listens for something to give the monster away, but all he can hear is wood creaking and men snoring.

It cannot be healthy, having to deal with all these emotions, he thinks.

In fact, it cannot be healthy feeling at all how he feels.

It is a strange thing, having to accept that one cannot possess what one cares for – no amount of will or muscle or hope can ever offer complete protection neither of oneself nor anyone else.

Anything might happen.

And so anything might happen to Goodsir – mild-mannered, thoughtful, brilliant Goodsir, who looks at Collins with gentle eyes and seems to see something that Collins himself does not when he looks into a mirror.

They catch one another's eyes once, across the table one evening in the officers' mess room, when the entire room is deeply engrossed in Lieutenant Gore's story of how he met his sweetheart, and whatever this connection is between them, it feels both terrifying and exciting. It is a good story, that of Gore's, but – looking into Goodsir's eyes – Gore's words become indecipherable, some distant background hum, and the language that Collins suddenly finds himself listening to – and understanding – is not one of words, nor it is one that he has ever encountered before.

He realises, then, his eyes still connecting with Goodsir's own across the short span of the table, across a thousand barriers, that he will never have a story like Gore's to easily tell aloud.

But he has this.

Which also means that he might lose it, once day.

Once he becomes aware of it, of what it is between Goodsir and himself, it occupies his mind much more than it should. In spite of them not doing any actual sailing at the present time, there is still much to do around the ship, and they must be prepared for the break up of ice at any given time, although it seems unlikely that anything will happen at least for the next couple of months.

He feels energised, with the knowledge of how he feels about the other man, has a spring in his step almost, but it is also infinitely distracting. When, at times, Goodsir randomly appears in his line of sight, or when someone mentions anything that in the slightest way reminds him of the other man, Collins finds it difficult to concentrate on the job at hand.

There is something particularly delightful about the surgeon's laugh, perhaps because it always seems so genuine and free, perhaps because of the fact that although Goodsir, in general, is rarely loud, his laugh usually is. Collins would like to bottle it up, into one of the amber bottles that contain the medicines that Goodsir dispenses, save the sound of it for darker days. He wonders if Goodsir is ticklish, if the laughter can be reproduced by playing his fingers along Goodsir's ribs, and if it might be infectious then – if some of the easy joy might transfer to Collins, too.

Something else happens, too, after that evening in the officers' mess – something which he has not experienced before, and, initially, it unsettles him greatly. Goodsir no longer looks simply friendly and approachable – instead, he starts looking attractive, dainty almost, with his beautiful eyes and soft, curly hair.

Collins has never thought that of another man before, and, at first, he does not know what to do. He wonders if he has started going mad, if there is something in the air up here, or in the water supply or their food, but he ultimately accepts that it is not the case. Whatever he feels is related to Goodsir, because of something they share between them, not some external force, and it is related to the other man only and none other.

It does not change how he feels about women, in general, it just happens to be that he apparently can think of and feel the same way for Goodsir.

Of course, Collins is aware of the acts sometimes going on between men on long voyages – but that, he supposes, is probably borne more out of some necessity for gratification rather than feeling – at least, that is usually the defence he has heard, whenever someone's activities has been found out and let out in the open. This is different, this is something else, something more.

He thinks back to Christmas Eve, and how everything that confused him back then is so obvious now. Lying there, in the dark, in a tiny bunk, in a tiny cabin aboard Erebus, in this endless winter landscape, next to Goodsir's calmly sleeping form, close enough to feel his breath on his skin, close enough to build a warmth between them, he should have known.

But with the knowledge comes also, after a while, inevitably, a fear – not of rejection, because he is certain that they are beyond that – but of loss. They are stuck in a cold climate, literally and metaphorically, with no certainty that it will ever change.

This acknowledgement seems to feed his nightmares, twist the familiar scene of a death in the sea into new and terrifying territory that leaves him tired and wary. He used to feel confident, in general and in his ability to cope with adversity, but he feels his confidence slowly slip away with every twisted nightmare that he wakes up from.

It cannot be healthy feeling all that he feels.


	21. January 1848

No one knows how the tent catches fire during the Carnivale – in fact, the fire is apparently barely noticed until the flames have almost engulfed them in an intense warmth. Even after, once everything is burned down, charred and unrecognisable, and already freezing up, Goodsir can still hear the roar of the fire mix in with the screams from inside the tent.

They line the bodies on a blanket of snow, make a count of men missing, and attempt to spot any features on the sooty remains.

It reminds Goodsir of how fleeting everything is. They had all been enjoying the evening, singing, drinking, dancing. And now, the memory of that night is tainted forever.

He feels guilty, although Collins tells him that there is no reason to. But they were not there, had sneaked out of the tent back to Erebus to take advantage of the rest of the men being a great distance away. They were not there, and Goodsir cannot help but wonder if anything would have turned out differently, better, if they had been there when the fire broke out.

He mourns the loss of Dr MacDonald, and Dr Peddie, too. There were good doctors, good men. He feels left alone, now, somehow.

Dr Stanley regards the bodies with what appears to be disinterest, although, when Goodsir sees him later, in the sick bay, the man is sitting with his eyes closed, a large tumbler of whisky in his hand, as if the events have taken a toll on him too.

“Ah, Goodsir – finished tending to the wounded on Terror?”  
“Yes. I thought I would see if you needed any help here?”  
“I don't.”  
“No, of course. Are... Are you alright, sir?”

Dr Stanley sighs. “What makes you think that I am not?”  
“N-nothing. I was only asking, because... Well, because I think that sometimes, we forget to take care of ourselves, in our taking care of others.”  
“You seem to manage.”

When the men on guard duty on the upper deck had started shouting, it had alarmed Goodsir and Collins enough for them to go up there to investigate. Together, they had stood on the upper deck and watched the red-orange glow of the ice seemingly on fire, before setting off down the stairs and running towards the Carnivale tent.

It had been difficult, running across the surface of the ice and snow, and all of them had slipped and fallen several times. When they finally reached the tent, the damage had already been done, and the men were standing outside the flame-engulfed tent, in varying states of shock.

“I don't feel splendid. I-”  
“You weren't there. You arrived after, with the men on guard duty. So did Collins.”  
“That...is true. But that does not exclude me from grieving our losses, or being in shock.”  
“Men like you feel too much.”  
“Men like me?”

Dr Stanley rises from where he is sitting. He is more than a head taller than Goodsir, and he has used this to his advantage several times. Goodsir is well aware of that fact. This time, when Dr Stanley takes a step forward, towards him, Goodsir does not react by taking a step back, as he so often has done instinctively.

“Do not think that I am unaware of what the two of you are doing. It is...vile, and indecent and _dirty_ of you, and I should report it! Although, as it is, I am willing not to, if you-”  
“Your opinion does not matter to me, Dr Stanley.”

For a moment, Goodsir thinks that the other man might have some sort of seizure, for the way he seems to freeze in his movements from where he is crowding in on Goodsir. His eyes look confused and panicked, almost, until he blinks whatever has come over him away.

The knocks on the open door ultimately brings Dr Stanley out of his paralysis, makes him draw back. Goodsir lets out a deep breath.

“Gentlemen,” Captain Fitzjames says and looks suspiciously at Dr Stanley, “If I may borrow Dr Goodsir for a few minutes, please.”

Goodsir nods. “Certainly, sir.”

He watches Dr Stanley sit down again, his body hunched in on itself as if all the ferocity he showed a short while ago has now drained him. Dr Stanley does not look back at him.

“Good Lord, that was rather unpleasant,” Captain Fitzjames says, once they are in the great cabin alone.  
“Erm, yes.”  
“I have always thought that the man was a bit strange, but that was...something else. I know that I was the one to sign him on, but I really am beginning to regret that decision.  
“He had his reasons, sir.”  
“No,” responds Fitzjames, “He didn't.”

Fitzjames hands him a tumbler of whisky. Goodsir takes it, swirls the liquid around in the glass, its amber colour rich in the golden light of the overhead lamp.

“H- how long were you there for? I mean...how _much_ did you hear?”

Captain Fitzjames seems to hesitate, then says, “I think it was kind of you to ask him if he were alright.”  
“Oh.”  
“Caring about other people is not a disadvantage, Dr Goodsir.”  
“No.”  
“At this point, it is pretty much all that we have left, is it not? And even if we were in possession of everything else – failing to care is failing everything. Would you agree?”

Goodsir nods. He takes a sip from the whisky. It burns his tongue and down his throat, but it is an innocuous sensation, disappearing again as quickly as it came about – unlike the burn of the flames across the field of ice.

“You are clean, Goodsir – _clean_ – do you understand?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“I'm glad that you were away from it. It was not a pretty sight. I... I don't think I shall ever be able to forget it.”  
“I'm sorry, sir – that any of you had to experience that.”  
“I am sorry too, I guess. For a lot of things. If nothing else, then the bad luck of this voyage has made me realise that.”

Captain Fitzjames empties his tumbler, then sighs. Goodsir takes a moment to study the man in front of him – he is still wearing his slightly burned clothing from the night before. Some of his hair on the right temple is charred , and his right cheek is reddened – evidence of how close he was to the flames.

“A-and you, sir? Are you alright?”  
“I will manage. I have to, don't I? But I will let you know, should anything change.”

Goodsir nods.

“Was there anything else, sir?”  
“No. No, I just thought I could do with a bit of company. But you are right, it is getting rather late.”

They stand up at the same time. Fitzjames is almost as tall as Dr Stanley, Goodsir realises, as the man steps closer to him to place a hand on Goodsir's shoulder.

“You're a good man,” Fitzjames says, “Don't ever...change. Don't ever try to be someone that you are not, just because there is this pressure to....conform.”  
“I... Thank you.”

Fitzjames smiles. His skin, up close, is dusty and filled with specks of soot. He was in the core of it, Goodsir thinks, engulfed by flames.

He wants to say something then, return the compliment, but certainly, Captain Fitzjames must know already how important he is, how well-liked he is. So he settles for a smile and walks back to his cabin in the low light cast through the doorway.

The smell of the fire permeates the ship, they all breathe it in, the memory of last night's horrors. He can hear the men turn over, sigh, take deep breaths. They cannot fall asleep. There is no comfort to be found.


	22. March 1849

It is strange how, in noticing that some of the others are clearly worse off than him, Collins' own despair seems to retreat and make way for something else – something that feels more like his own self, before the ice, before the dive, and before every other event leading to this point.

Carrying Blanky on his back, when the terrain makes it too rough a ride in the boat, does not drain him of energy as much as he expects it to. Instead, it gives him a purpose, something to focus on, as they snail their way across the ice.

Neither he nor Blanky says a word about it, having silently disagreed not to acknowledge the fact that the other man's leg, or what is left of it, is slowly rotting off and that he is helpless for it. Goodsir says that putting him through another amputation, out here under the open sky, with no proper instruments or medicines, is too high a risk.

He has always looked up to Blanky, ever since meeting him. There is a wisdom there, in the man, and endless, stubborn courage, something to aspire to. The fact that Blanky keeps going, mentally and, at least to some degree, physically, inspires hope in Collins.

Captain Fitzjames is poorly too, though from scurvy it seems. The man kept pulling the boat, even when an old bullet hole opened up in his chest. He would have kept going, had Captain Crozier not ordered him to give up his harness.

At this point, the scurvy is probably taking root in all of them, although both Captain Crozier, Collins, Hartnell, and Little seem unaffected. Goodsir is well, too, and although Collins worries endlessly about the other man potentially falling ill, he has begun to wonder if the fact that Goodsir has never been to sea before – has lived a normal life with a normal diet back home – means that he is more resilient to scurvy, has had more reserves since the beginning.

They are close to Somerset Island by now, but their speed has slowed. If they are lucky, they might reach the island by June, before the ice potentially breaks up beneath them.

They live off of the godforsaken tins and seal meat – Collins has gotten used to the texture by now, although he still dreams of a proper meal most nights. They have managed to shoot a bear, too. Every once in a while, as they sit in silence and eat the raw meat, Little's question of what they have become echoes in his mind. But he is only to remind himself of his own answer, to keep away the fear that they are somehow turning less human by engaging in such behaviour. They are no less human, but maybe less civilised – which hardly matters. They are adapting to their environment.

He thinks back to the Esquimaux, before Hickey and Manson and Tozer chased them off, and he wonders if the Esquimaux are in fact not the more civilised people.

He knows that Goodsir feels bad about what happened – at first, he wondered if the other man simply wanted the Esquimaux to have a good impression of Englishmen and Scots, but, throughout their many talks, he has realised that Goodsir genuinely liked the pair, enjoyed their company. Goodsir misses them, like one misses close friends, and it breaks Collins' heart to notice it and be able to do nothing about it.

“Do you think that they are alright?” Goodsir asks him one particular evening, when they are talking about the pair.  
“Yes – I think so. This is their home, they know it better than anyone.”  
“Good.”  
“I know that they meant a lot to you.”

Goodsir looks at him, smiles.

“I liked them. Like them. They were incredibly smart people. And at the same time, they were so pure, and, being in their company and having them look at me, and see me, I felt almost as if it cleansed me of every bad thing I have ever done.”  
“I find it hard to believe than you have ever done anything bad.”  
“Haven't I?”

Goodsir reaches for Collins' hand. Goodsir's own is cold. Collins takes it and lets his thumb run across Goodsir's wrist to feel his pulse. The skin is still surprisingly soft, for so very often being exposed to the harsh conditions of the Arctic, but there is the beginning of a scar there, from where a broken mirror slashed across the surgeon's wrist when unpacking his belongings a while back. Goodsir had gasped, and Collins had turned around to see the man pressing his right hand across the wrist of the left. The snow beneath had been speckled in bright red dots.

He had panicked, like he had always imagined that he would, should something happen to Goodsir, and he had been entirely useless, frantically looking around for some suitable cloth with which to apply pressure. Irving, who had run over to see what the commotion was, had gone white as a sheet and nearly fainted when Goodsir had momentarily removed his right hand to assess the damage. The surgeon had ended up stitching himself up with impressive deftness.

There is a white scar there, now, nothing more. The blood pulsates steadily in the arteries beneath the skin.

“They told such incredible stories, too, you know. Not just of their family, and their traditions, but there were these wonderful tales of – their religion, I suppose.”  
“I am afraid my understanding of their language is too limited to have known that.”  
“Y-you have other talents – many other, I should say. Anyway – Silna once told me this one story which chilled me to the bone. Or it would, had I not already been freezing.”

Collins smiles at the attempt of humour.

“Alright, let me hear it then.”

Goodsir turns his head towards him.

“Are you certain?”  
“I may not really be a religious man, but I don't oppose of a good story.”  
“That's – not what I meant, but...”  
“Harry, I genuinely want you to tell me the story.”

He watches the man next to him pull their shared blanket further up their bodies, as if attempting to keep out the chill that the story will cause.

“There are apparently many spirits in the Inuit religion. Some are bound to a physical form, others are not, although they can _possess_ human and animal to their desire. The latter kind is called Tuurngag. The shamans can call upon these spirits to help with different tasks in times of need, for the benefit of the Inuit, you see. But, for some reason, over time, some spirits that are evil have arisen – these spirits create disease or bad luck or possess or kill people. Silna's father, the shaman, it was his task to hold one such evil spirit at bay. Y-you saw his small figures, carved from bone, did you not?”

Collins nods.

“At any rate, this particular spirit has been held at bay for generations, but they have not managed to defeat it. It is said to suck the souls out of people, not only killing them, but denying them eternal rest. Silna and her father were chasing it, in the form of a bear, when we came upon them, and, being disturbed by us, as they unfortunately were, they lost whatever incantations, whatever bindings they had on it. So now it is here, free to roam as if pleases. Free to do...whatever. With...with all that has happened to us, one cannot help both wonder...”

Goodsir's pulse picks up, and Collins releases his hand to instead put his arm around the other man.

“It...is stories, that is all. A way of putting inexplicable things into some sort of order, attempting to find reason in life where there is none, make a sense of it all somehow – just like any other religion that this Earth has to offer. They cannot all be right – why should any?”  
“I don't know.”  
“But tell me, would a god allow this much suffering? Can any amount of good done by a god ever make up for all the horrible things that happen? It is stories, I think, made up a long time ago by people who needed to believe that there was some reward for sticking out the terrors of this life.”

They sit in silence for a while. Collins leans his head on Goodsir's shoulder, pressing his cold nose into the warmth of the nook of his neck, making Goodsir shiver.

“In your experience – does the body have a soul?” Collins asks, curious.  
“I... I suppose that I don't know. I remember the first dead body I saw, it was of one of the patients I had to care for during my studies. He was old, and ill from consumption, and one morning when I arrived on the ward, he was gone. Well, not physically, but he had...passed. And I remember thinking that he looked quite transformed already, although his body was not yet cold to the touch. I- I took hold of his hand, and it, too, felt different. It haunted me for years – that image imprinted in my mind: the strange colour of his skin as if it were both see-through and thick at the same time, the way his eyes seemed to have sunken further into his skull so that it, the skull I mean, stood out quite clear. That image haunted me – the skull left behind, but everything else transformed. His face was no longer his face. And I thought, this is the truth – what will remain of us is this: hollow eye sockets, teeth perhaps, strands of hair, and, as the mouth falls open, a...a primal expression of some terror, even if we die peacefully. It did make me wonder." "Oh, Harry..." "A-and...such strange and elaborate burial rituals we construct – statues and flowers and hymns – to remember someone no longer here. We honour their life, in their death, in that final, grandiose goodbye, where we lay their body to rest. But the body is not the person, really, something else like the mind is, and sometimes the mind is gone even long before the death of the body – I have seen that, too – the body alive, but the person not there, the skull dressed in skin in a weak attempt to mimic life. I... I suppose that it does not answer the question of if anything of us really remains after we pass. Although, over the years, and up here especially, I have learned a second truth: what will remain of us is love.”

Collins presses a kiss to Goodsir's neck, and then, as the man turns his head towards him, captures his mouth instead, whilst gently cradling Goodsir's head in his hands.

Yes, he thinks, and it comforts him - no matter what happens, love remains.


	23. November 1849

Drops of rain fall hard on the cobblestone streets as Goodsir hurries through the city. Only a small sphere around him, underneath his umbrella, is free of rain, but the dampness of the winter month is still seeping into his clothes.

He does not mind the rain, much – he never has – but instinct now tells him to avoid being damp or wet, as it might freeze in an instant, like it did in the Arctic. He still remembers the first time he went outside, onto the upper deck of Erebus, with damp curls, and they froze into position on his head. Fitzjames had laughed delightfully at the sight and, when Sir Franklin was not around, he had pulled on one unrelenting curl. The gesture had reminded Goodsir that Fitzjames was not that much older than himself, was more than the pristine and seemingly distant figure he often cut as he walked the upper deck on the early mornings.

He narrowly avoids stepping in a puddle, reminiscing as he is, and is taken aback by the fact that he is able, now, to reminisce, to remember fondly, rather than afeared. He would have thought that the process of getting past their experiences would take longer than it has – he is still not over what happened, he will never truly be – but even though new instinct, such as this avoidance of wetness and damp, sometimes takes over, he is already more at peace now than even just a few months ago.

The same can be said for Collins, although the man still has horrible nightmares from time to time, waking up shouting, arms flailing, before settling back into reality. He once managed, in his sleep, to grab hold of Goodsir and haul him across and off the bed, effectively flipping him from his sleeping position on the right side of the bed to the floor just beside the left side of the bed. Collins had awoken then, when Goodsir yelped from the shock of being literally pulled out of sleep, and realised to his horror what he had done, eyes wide and tears forming within. Goodsir had had to calm him down not from the nightmare, but from the fear of having hurt Goodsir, even though he had only suffered a slight scrape on his elbow, where it had made impact with the floor.

“I am not a fragile thing,” Goodsir had said, voice light.  
“I know that. But I could have hurt you still.”  
“You did not mean to – do not let it trouble you, Henry. Please.”  
“It is difficult not to.”  
“It was an impressive move, almost.”  
“ _Almost_.”  
“Yes – maybe next time let me land on the bed. That is all I ask of you.”

Their sleep already ruined at that point, they had decided to stay up and talk throughout the night. In the darkness, lying close together, it had almost felt as if they had been back in Goodsir's cabin on Erebus, were it not for the fact that there was no need to quieten their voices. They could laugh openly, freely, and speak just the same – at least until John had knocked on the door and asked them to shut up as he could hear them half across the flat and had absolutely no desire to continue doing so, as he had an early lecture the next day.

Edinburgh is beautiful, dressed in the rain and darkness, a city built for all kinds of weather. Inside the flat is warm, with the fireplace ablaze, as the raindrops fall rhythmically on the roof. Robert is there on a visit, for two weeks, and already a nuisance to Goodsir in his usual, brotherly way.

“Harry! Glad you could join us. We've only waited for you for the last hour or so.”  
“To be fair, we all agreed for dinner to be at seven.”  
“Yes, but I had rather hoped that you would be here in time for pre-dinner cocktails.”  
“No thank you.”  
“Bore,” Robert says fondly.

They are a strange sort of family, Goodsir thinks, looking around the table, when they finally all manage to gather for dinner – Robert, and John, and Edward Forbes, and Collins. A while back, before the expedition, John had hoped that the flat would serve as a home for the three brothers, a place for them to further their skills and do so together. But Robert, ever in-motion, had gone off to London, and Edward, a naturalist and friend of theirs, had joined them in the flat instead. Now Collins is here too, has become part of the group, easily enough, although he does not come from the same academic background as the rest of them.

At first, John had said nothing about the fact that Goodsir had welcomed Collins so fully into his life, sharing a room and, more to the point, a bed – and Goodsir had not known whether his brother understood the extent of their relations and simply ignored it, or if he was incredibly, wholly oblivious. By September, John had asked him if they did not find it cramped, sharing the space, if it were not in fact better that they cleared out the small study, to give Collins his own room and some privacy. Something in Goodsir's heart had broken then, some hope of having been understood, and accepted, and he had stuttered something about how they had gotten so used to small, cramped spaces and no privacy during they voyage that it was the least thing on their minds by now. John had looked relieved – Goodsir knew how much the man appreciated their study, how much time he spent in there, documenting, writing, thinking.

Robert knows, of course, to Goodsir's annoyance almost as much as relief. Robert has always been the jester of the family, and he means no harm, but there is always a slight fear that Robert will accidentally reveal more than he means to, when he is making fun. 

“Where is the cat?” Edward says, looking around the dining room for Professor Felix, who usually always sits by the table and begs for scraps. “Did someone finally take it to the vet to have that tooth pulled?”

“I took it in the afternoon,” says John.

Goodsir coughs, choking on a sip of wine, just as Robert, sitting across from him, drops his knife and fork to the plate and starts laughing loudly. Their eyes meet across the table, a great conspiracy of vowed secrecy, and Goodsir feels a swell of love.

“Whatever is happening? How come that is funny?” John says.

Collins rubs his hand across Goodsir's back as he tries to get his breathing back to normal. “Are you alright?” he asks, sounding both concerned and amused by the scene. Goodsir nods.

“Oh, you would not understand, I am afraid, John, you simply would not,” Robert sighs. John looks pensive for a moment, then, apparently deciding not to dig deeper, returns to his food.

Later, when John is snoring on the sofa and Edward is attempting to teach Collins the rules of chess, Goodsir retreats back to their bedroom, only to have Robert follow him.

“You know – I was just going to go to bed in here, Robert.”  
“Harry, I have told you before, and I say it again – don't be such a bore.”  
“I am not. But it has been a long day.”

He leans back onto the right side of the bed.

“You can sleep in tomorrow. It is Saturday, after all.”  
“Hmm.”

He feels the mattress dip next to him, and even if he did not already now that it is Robert, and not Collins, he would have been able to tell by the movement alone. Strange, how easily one becomes accustomed, he thinks.

“So... Do you take it in the a-”  
“Shut up, Robert.”  
“Oh, come on! At least admit that it was rather funny, coming from John.”  
“It was.”  
“He's so uptight.”

Goodsir is unsure for how long he has been dosing off, when he abruptly awakens to the sound of a bedside drawer opening.

“Wha- what are you doing?”  
“Snooping.”  
“Well, stop that.”  
“An astronomy book? Not what I hoped to find in here, but still...interesting. What's in yours?”

Robert makes to lean across him, reaching for the other bedside drawer. Goodsir grabs his hand.

“Robert.”  
“What?” He smiles, deviously, and Goodsir scowls up at him, which only makes the other man smile more.

Within seconds, they are play-fighting on the bed, Robert trying to reach Goodsir's drawer and Goodsir trying, and so far succeeding, in keeping him away from it. It is only when Robert starts tickling him that Goodsir's grip on him weakens, but for all his intent to pry further, Robert seems just as satisfied with making Goodsir laugh beneath him.

That is how Collins finds them, mere minutes later – Goodsir laughing loudly at the ministrations and Robert laughing at or, perhaps rather, with Goodsir.

“What on Earth?” he says, voice clearly amused, as he goes to pick up his book from the bed and narrowly avoids being kicked in the face.

Robert stops the tickling then, sits up. His hair is all over the place, face red from laughter. Goodsir sighs in relief.

“He is very ticklish – did you know?”  
“Yes.”  
“Anyway, I was innocently snooping around,” he points to the book in Collins' hand, “And he decided to attack me.”  
“Liar.”  
“Hush. He would not let me open is bedside drawer – would you happen to know why?”  
“No. There is nothing in there.”

Goodsir watches Collins go around the bed and pull the drawer open. It is empty, as Collins said. Goodsir laughs and leans his head back onto his pillow.

“What the...?”  
“What were you expecting to find?” asks Collins.

Goodsir, like Collins, turns his head to look at Robert.

For a minute, his brother is quiet, then, without warning, he says, “You know, Henry – one of the girls back in London, once of twice, when she was in a particularly good mood, she would allow me to take her up the back-passage.”  
“Robert! Good Lord, not this again, why-”  
“Fascinating story.”  
“Right? Well, have you ev-”  
“At least it would be, were it not for the fact that your brother lets me do that quite often.”  
“Henry!”

Goodsir looks between the two men. Collins looks oddly smug, leaning back against the desk, legs crossed at the ankles, as if he is engaging in some casual conversation. Robert is staring at him, mouth open, until he catches himself and smiles widely.

“Very straightforward. I like you,” he says, pointing to Collins.  
“I hate both of you,” Goodsir says.  
“Oh, come on, Harry, he knew anyway.”  
“Not...that.”  
“Of course I did. The two of you are not exactly subtle. The fact that John is entirely unaware actually has me concerned for him, poor man.”  
“Please, can we talk of something else?”  
“Don't be ashamed.”  
“Robert, this is none of your business!”  
“Well, you made it mine, the way the two of you woke me up last Sunday.”  
“You were supposed to attend church with John, Joseph, and Edward.”  
“You actually expected me to go? Me?”  
“A little divine influence would do you well.”  
“By the sounds of it, other activities than church-going obtains the same result.”

There is no heat behind their arguing, and they all know it.

“Alright you two,” Collins says anyway, “Calm down. Robert, I am sorry that we apparently woke you up, but-”  
“Oh, don't be. I am not. After all, it was rather entertaining – who knew my sweet, innocent brother could make such noises?”  
“But...perhaps we could keep all this between the three of us. I know already that you are of a rather open mind, but not all are so.”

For the first time during their entire conversation, Robert looks serious. He nods.

“Yes. Of course. I...I mean no harm, in teasing – I never do. But in all honesty, I do understand the seriousness of the...situation. I would never do something to intentionally harm or hurt you – either of you.”  
“Thank you.”  
“I... I see no wrong, in any of this between you.”

Goodsir closes his eyes. All the energy that rose in him during the play-fight with Robert is gone. He feels tired, drained almost. He faintly hears Robert ask Collins about the astronomy book, then falls asleep to the sound of their voices, incoherent, in the background.

He feels oddly safe, like that.


	24. January 1848

Collins does not want to go to Carnivale. He has had a rather unpleasant talk with Dr Stanley earlier on in the day, and he knows that the man is not only lazy, as Goodsir has suggested several times, but directly callous – and their talk does certainly not make him look forward to the Carnivale any more, but in Dr Stanley's strange refusal to hear what he is saying, even if the other man did actually listen to the words that Collins spoke, Collins realises something else.

No one but himself can be responsible for his own mind, and his own survival. Putting any kind of responsibility for him onto someone else only leads to one of two things – either the other person disappoints, like in the case of Dr Stanley, or he himself risks disappointing or wearing down the other person. As much as he needs Goodsir, Goodsir does not deserve the burden of having to carry Collins through all this bleakness. He cannot demand that of Goodsir – that the other man should give so much, or anything at all, of himself in order for Collins to survive. It is not fair.

It is not up to Goodsir to get Collins through any of this.

He cannot ask that of the other man.

He is piecing together his costume, sitting on his bed, when Goodsir enters the cabin and closes the door behind him.

“I killed her,” he whispers, tears running down his cheeks. Collins stops what he is doing.  
“Killed who?”

Goodsir all but falls atop of him then, crying soundly and attaching his arms around Collins. He can do nothing but reciprocate, confused as he is and understanding very little, although his heart is already aching.

“Jacko.”  
“The... The monkey?”  
“Yes.”  
“Harry...”

He tries to get Goodsir to sit up a bit straighter, but the man is unrelenting, having thrown himself across the bed, sobbing hysterically by now, into Collins' shoulder. Collins' ugly costume lies abandoned between them. He does not know what to do, except to hold the other man for as long as he needs, and he feels a frustration grow in himself that he is unable to comfort Goodsir – in fact, he is unable not only to provide comfort, but to prevent discomfort from ever happening, inadequate.

“Harry, I am sure you did not...”  
“I did.”

Eventually, the sobs turn quieter, into small hiccups.

“I did – oh, I did. I wanted to see i-if the tins had any part in this sickness and wasting that has been going around. So I fed her. From the tins. Like it were some experiment in a laboratory and not a cruel act of-”  
“The tins?”  
“I suspect poisoning. Lead, or...something alike.”  
“And you...confirmed your theory on Jacko?”  
“Yes.”

Collins sighs.

“So its death in not in vain. It had a purpose.”  
“It was a means.”  
“Harry – it was a monkey. Taken out of its natural habitat and stuck here, in the middle of nowhere in the Arctic. It was always going to end poorly – it was always going to die.”  
“You could make the same argument of us.”

There is – no matter the time of the day, no matter the subject matter, no matter the situation – something inherently innocent in Goodsir. Even now, as he sits leaning on Collins, shocked at his own ability to be what he considers cruel, even in this sudden loss of innocence, he is innocent.

Perhaps it is that Collins has come to love him, and so sees no fault in the other man, but he does not think it the reason – neither of them are perfect, and they do not pretend to be – they are human beings, with shortcomings and an ability to make mistakes as much as anyone else. Rather, and much more valuable than any feigned perfection, there is a core of purity in the other man, not in his being good, but in his wish to be so, in his striving to always be a better person.

And Collins is oddly relieved, too, that Goodsir shares this moment with him, his sadness and his frustration, because this is an allowed deeper look into the fascinating world of Goodsir's mind and his moral code. This man, who has spent hours looking at small creatures in microscopes, who is fascinated by any form of life – as fascinated by the intricacies of a mollusc as by those of a human – he mourns for the monkey almost as he would have for a human being. The fact that it is an animal, not a human, whose life he has apparently undoubtedly shortened by the feeding on tinned food, does not matter to Goodsir – all is equal.

And yet, he had chosen to conduct the experiment on the monkey.

“Something good has come out of its death, though – is that not true? You know now, of the tins, for certain.”  
“But what difference does that make?”  
“It might save us.”  
“I doubt it.”

For a while, they sit quietly. The sounds of men preparing for the Carnivale, talking and joking, can be heard across the entire ship.

Collins does not want to go to Carnivale.

“I like sitting like this. I like listening to the beat of your heart.”  
“Well, I am glad that you came here, to me. Though I hate seeing you sad.”  
“You are not disappointed in me? In what I did?”  
“No – why would I be? Besides, it is not up to me to say what you should or should not do.”  
“But your opinion matters to me.”  
“You did not...experiment on Jacko without reason. You did it for the benefit of the entire expedition. I cannot judge you or be disappointed in you for that.”  
“It is still taking a life.”  
“I know – a monkey's life. But so is taking the life of a seal, for food – for survival, or taking the life of a bird for the same reason.”  
“I guess there is some truth to that.”  
“There is.”

Goodsir nods against his chest.

“We could forgo Carnivale? Just stay here.”  
“People are bound to notice.”  
“Then we can just leave early. Show up for the dinner, and then go back once people start to mingle.”  
“I would like that.”  
“Good.”

For a moment, he wonders if he is taking the cowardly way out, but Goodsir sighs against him, and he realises that it is not one man carrying the other, and maybe it never has been. It is instead, a gentle push and pull, a cradling of one another, when needed, a give and a take, depending on the day. They are in this together.

“I would like that – very much,” Goodsir repeats.  
“So would I,” admits Collins, “So would I.”

A couple of hours later, they are both in better spirits, the state of the monkey and of the threat to the health of the expedition momentarily forgotten. Collins feels lighter than usual, somehow. He listens to the horrible singing from Lieutenant Irving and is amused, rather than annoyed at the tones, and he even watches Captain Fitzjames win the race taking place and joins in on the cheering.

When Goodsir grabs his arm, though, he follows the man without question – out of the tents and into the cold air of the Polar night.

Goodsir kisses him, then – their first kiss outside the confines of either of their cabins, out of sight from the others, but out in the open, standing in-between great blocks of ice. He tastes of rum, or maybe that is Collins himself, and courage, and something else, some kind of addictive flavour, inherent to Goodsir.

Snow is falling around them, slowly, and although there is no rush to their kisses, there is an air of excitement between them.

“Feel better?” he asks between kisses.  
“Yes. All thanks to you. And perhaps the rum.”  
“I see. Do you want to stay?”

They lean their foreheads against one another, noses touching – cold skin against cold skin.

“No. I want to be with you, please.”  
“We don't have to-”  
“Henry – I just want to be with you. Alone.”

The aurora borealis moves across they sky in rolling waves above them, mimicking the waves of the sea. Goodsir sneaks his hands inside Collins' coat, leans up to kiss him again. And Collins knows that he is lying to himself, knows that he feels responsible for not only himself, but for Goodsir, too, and that it is not a burden, but a blessing, to have someone who depends a bit on you, who bestows you their trust like that.


	25. June 1850

The early Summer mornings by the sea are beautiful, when the mist of the sea slowly clears and the whole place, for a short while, feels almost otherworldly. From the balcony, Goodsir's view of the open water is unobstructed, the light breeze a welcome element as the day grows warmer.

Less than a year since they returned, and the sea is back in their lives in some form.

He likes it here, although the distance to work is slightly greater than before – he likes the house and the surrounding garden, the privacy, the view and easy access to the sea. And he likes that it is theirs. A few miles in order to reach the museum is hardly anything to complain about.

It had been difficult to say goodbye to Lothian Street, to the flat shared with John and Edward, but it was the right thing to do. Having their own place affords them more freedom, gives them a chance to be more at ease in their interactions – it feels like a proper home.

Safe.

Four weeks ago, they moved in, and he had been so very nervous of how it would be, if it was too much of a change all at once, if it was folly to imagine that they could keep living together without any questions raised. Robert had helped with the move – hauled chairs and tables and boxes full of books – and that evening, the three of them had sat on the balcony drinking wine and listening to the waves of the sea crashing in. Robert had not cared about their intertwined fingers, or Collins' kissing Goodsir's temple when the man got up to collect another bottle of wine – he had simply smiled and leaned back in his chair, gesturing towards the sunset.

“Nice view. I envy the two of you.”  
“You should move here, too. To Edinburgh, I mean. Not move in.”  
“I might. I don't know. Or I might go on an adventure, abroad.”  
“Dear Lord, Robert...”  
“Well, I get easily bored – therein lies my great problem in life, I think.”  
“I think I have had adventure enough for a lifetime. But here – this is good.”  
“It is indeed.”

That night, Robert had stayed in what was supposed to be Collins' bedroom but was only so in name – a guest room, rather, for Robert or others.

He is there, now, too, sleeping in, having already come back for a second visit, and Goodsir has this notion that Robert rather likes their company – that not only Goodsir or Collins, but Robert, too, can be more himself in this selected company.

Goodsir yawns, tired from a long night of talking and laughing. In a few hours, they are meeting the rest of the family and a few friends by the beach. He is looking forward to it, the first swim of the year – in fact, the first swim for several years.

Beside him, Collins joins him on the balcony.

“Morning,” he says and leans his forearms on the railing. He looks good, healthy. His hair is all over the place, the way it always is in the morning, and a smile is playing on his lips.

“It is going to be a warm day. I feel it already.”  
“I think so, too. I cannot wait to go swimming!”  
“You know – last year, after we got back, I had this fear that I would never be able to go near the sea again. Wholly irrational fear, I know. It was not the sea, per se, that was any threat to us up there – nor really – but the temperature, the ice, and...ourselves, I suppose. But I had this fear of the sea. Then, one day, when you were at the university, back when I had not figured out what to do with myself, I went to the sea and jumped in.”  
“How was it?”  
“Wet. Cold. Ultimately, it was fine. It did not change or transform me, and I don't know why I expected it to. Perhaps we give too much significance to what we experienced up there – I mean to how deep it went. I still feel uneasy sometimes, in general – you know than more than anyone, how I...shut down. At any rate, at least I faced that – going back to the sea – and I know myself capable thereof.”  
“Do you miss it – being aboard a ship?”

Collins turns his head to look at him then, and the wind catches his hair. He has gained back the bulk and muscle, which he eventually lost, starving as they all were on the ice. He is a handsome man, Goodsir thinks – a handsome man in need of a shave.

“Sometimes. It is in my nature, I think – the way I was brought up. It is a peculiar thing – I never thought more than perhaps a year or two ahead. I never laid any lasting plans – I never even thought of how my future would be, as if I never was allowed one. There was only the work, the voyages. But it is different now – not so much because of the expedition as because of you, I guess. You made me want something more, and I am grateful for that.”  
“Y-you know that I would never ask you to stay here, should you want to go back to sea.”  
“I know that,” Collins says and turns his back to the sun and the sea, “I do know that. But I want to be here, with you, more than I want anything else – and I want us to make this place entirely our own, I want to build a library for your books and mine, and I want us to get a cat or two – to come and go as they please. I want us to live here for many years to come, and go on holidays, if once we can afford that, and then return to here. I want to continue being as happy as I am now.”

Goodsir smiles, flattered. He still remembers Collins sitting in the darkness in his own cabin, after the dive. The same man, he thinks, and yet so very different.

“I don't want the core moment of my life,” Collins continues, “To be anything that happened up there, in that place. Even if that was where I met you.”  
“I understand.”  
“Five years ago – I cannot believe that it has been five years. It feels simultaneously like a lot less and yet like a whole lifetime.”  
“Well, we did not become...this...straight away.”  
“No, but you were always there. Even he memories that do not revolve around you, you're in them somehow – like out of the corner of the eye, or in parenthesis – you were there, too, through it all.”

Later, when they are all gathered on the beach, Goodsir watches Collins and Robert splash around in the waves from the safe distance of a beach chair. John and their father is walking around by the water's edge, deep in conversation. His sister Jane has joined their friends Edward and John for what they termed a picturesque stroll, although Goodsir suspects that they have, in fact, gone to buy sweets.

His mother is next to him, in the shadow of the parasol, leaning back and watching the others. She was a beautiful woman in her day, and she still is, although it is clear by now that she, like everybody else, is getting older.

“I worry about your brother sometimes,” she says now, quietly.  
“Which one?”  
“John. That he might end up lonely.”  
“That is not your burden to bear, though is it – besides, he is not that old, yet.”  
“No, but he is alone.”  
“A-and you don't worry about Robert, or me?”  
“Robert is hardly lonely, my dear – have you heard the man's stories? Sometimes I wonder if he is even telling me everything, but then...I probably do not want to know everything do I? And you – you are not lonely, are you?”

She briefly looks towards Robert and Collins, now floating on their backs, far out in the ocean, bathed in the sunlight.

“No, I am not.”  
“Then why should I worry about you?”  
“Mother, I-”  
“I did enough of that in those years that you were gone. I worried so much. There were a lot of sleepless nights, back then.”  
“I am sorry.”

She looks at him, a soft expression on her face.

“Oh, don't be. Just be happy, now. That is all that matters.”  
“I am.”  
“I mean both of you.”  
“We... We are.”

She takes his hand in hers, like she used to do when he was a child. He skin is soft, slightly paler than his own.

“Does father know?”  
“Yes.”  
“And?”  
“And nothing else but your happiness matters. Honestly sweetheart, you act as we have not known already for several years.”  
“Well – but...I guess it is rather more in your face now.”

She is quiet for a moment. Distracted, Goodsir thinks.

“God, I wish he would do that to John, too. That might wake up the poor man from whatever rut he is stuck in.”

Goodsir follows to where she is pointing. Collins has a tight hold around Robert's legs, holding him upside down, half underwater, arms flailing, then releases him head-first into the waves. He watches Robert get back up and immediately jump a laughing Collins.

“Mother...”  
“Harry – it honestly is alright. More than that. Only – be careful. Both of you.”  
“Yes. And thank you.”

She squeezes his hand but does not release it completely, and goes back to watching Robert and Collins play-fight in the water.

Soon after, they are joined by Jane and Edward and John, bringing them sweets and cut out pieces of fruits, and Goodsir takes a slice of apple before running to join Collins and Robert in the water.

First swim of the year, he thinks, and he is then promptly jumped on by both of the other men, pulling him underwater, laughing.

The water is freezing cold, a stark contract to the heat of the air. It is Scotland, after all, he thinks.

He is happy.


	26. October 1947

The darkness is a fascinating thing, Collins thinks, as it falls around him. It is heavy, like a burden, but also so incredibly light and fragile that he cannot get a good grasp on it to hold it away from him. It smothers him, like an old, damp blanket of the past, or like one of the cloths that they draw around the dead bodies.

Yet, in the darkness, he can see more clearly, somehow. He knows, as he lies back on his bunk, more clearly than ever before who he is – not quite good, not quite bad, simply him.

He focuses on his breathing, controlled, steady, and reminds himself that he is still alive and that he should be grateful.

Outside, on the ice, not even a mile away, the Esquimaux sleep in their igloo. A few months back, when Silna had taught them how to build one, they had slept in it for a night. It had been strange, being surrounded by ice, but not unpleasant. Goodsir, the next day, had talked about the wonderful sounds of nature, referring to the ever-creaking noise of the ice below them, or the wind whistling by outside, but Collins himself had been more focused on everybody's breathing and soft snoring, until he had fallen asleep himself.

Tonight, he cannot fall asleep though, stuck in the present awareness, and the more he tries to focus on sleeping, the more difficult it becomes.

Eventually, he gets up, out of bed, and dresses to go outside.

He nods to the men on guard duty and walks to the bow of the ship. It does not take him long to realise that someone is following him, although he does not recognise the man from the pattern of his steps alone.

Disappointment rises in him when he turns around and comes face to face with Dr Stanley.

“Ah, Mr Collins,” he says, as if he had not deliberately followed him here, as if it were instead Collins, who had entered the sick bay to seek out the other man.  
“Dr Stanley.”  
“What are you doing up so late?”

Collins shrugs. He can already feel himself becoming annoyed at having to deal with Dr Stanley at this time of the night.

“Couldn't sleep.”

The doctor nods. He had never been particularly interested in talking with Collins, or any of the men, before. Collins wonders why the man has decided to make conversation now.

“Is that so?”

He wonders if perhaps the other man is lonely, if he has left a loving family behind in England only to get stuck up here. But why should that matter? They all have left someone behind, either family or friends – several of the men are married and have small children back home. They all suffer from whatever and whoever they left behind.

“And you, sir?”  
“Oh, this and that keeps me up. There is so much to do, you see.”  
“Even at this hour?”  
“A doctor's work never ceases.”

He thinks of Goodsir's face, some days tired and pale form lack of sleep, and he knows it to be true. Yet it is difficult to reconcile this fact with Dr Stanley, somehow.

“Of course not, sir.”

Dr Stanley is quiet after that, but Collins gets the sense that their conversation, however sparse it has been, is not quite over. He does not say anything else, though, simply puts his gloved hands upon the ships railing and stares out into the night.

Out there, across the stretch of ice and darkness, bears are walking, or sleeping, wholly undisturbed by whatever is going on aboard either of the ships. More free than any man here will ever be.

To think that this is life – this life, somehow contaminated with death, this is it. This is all. He fears that he has spent it all wrong.

The imperfections of this world are all of the wrong kind, Collins muses to himself. This unfair world, this cold at eternal mid-winter bites too real, like teeth sinking into his skin, like nails or knife blades carving out his life – his own personal tragedy. His mind feels heavy with all the possible lives he did not get to live. All those uncertain futures that will forever remain just that – a future that will never become present time.

This life – this is it.

He wants Dr Stanley to go away – the presence of the other man makes him uneasy, more alone somehow.

Instead of leaving, the other man steps up closer next to him so that their shoulders almost touch.

His voice is low and stern as he speaks. “I know what the two of you are doing.”

The sentence catches Collins off-guard, and he does not understand.

“I beg pardon, sir?”  
“You know of what I am speaking.”  
“I'm afraid that I don't.”

The other man sighs. Out of the corner of the eye, Collins catches sight of the breath hanging white in the air. He turns his head away from it.

“Goodsir and you. Don't take me for a fool.”

The mention of Goodsir makes Collins turn his head back to look at Dr Stanley. A stubborn rage is visible on his face, even in the low light.

“I am not – only, I am uncertain as to what you are referring to. Is this about the talks with the Esquimaux?”  
“It is about the fact that the two of you are...are doing unspeakable things, blasted!”  
“Pardon?”  
“If you so much as consider continuing this... _involvement_ , I will make your lives a misery.”  
“I do not think that you will – at least not more than you do already. Besides, Dr Stanley – I still do not understand what this is all about.”

Collins does understand, by now, of course, but there is hardly anything for Dr Stanley to be upset about. He is not certain what it is that Dr Stanley is picking up on – after all, Collins has only kissed Goodsir once, in the privacy of Goodsir's cabin in the middle of the night, months ago. He wonders if Dr Stanley is perhaps acting out of some strange jealousy rather than disgust.

And after all, Dr Stanley has no concrete proof of anything, and in a case of Dr Stanley's word against that of theirs, Collins will manage to pull rank.

Dr Stanley says no more, only bangs his fist against the railing before hurriedly leaving. Collins releases a deep breath as he watches the man leave.

He catches Morfin's curious eyes and shrugs. The seaman walks up to him.

“Are you alright, Mr Collins?”  
“Yes, thank you Morfin. Just got caught in the middle of one of Dr Stanley's bad moods, I suppose.”  
“Is there any other, sir?”  
“I doubt it. How are you holding up?”  
“Tired, if I am being honest, sir. Not of this night's duty, but in general like. I get headaches, horrible bouts, from not sleeping properly, I think.”  
“Have you spoken to the surgeons about that?”  
“Don't want to bother them with some minor problems.”  
“Speak to Dr Goodsir, Morfin. He might be able to help.”

The man nods. He does look tired, or worn, much older than when they first set out. Collins claps him on his shoulder, twice, before making his way along the upper deck to the ladderway and back into the warmth of the ship.

Returning to his bed, he still cannot sleep. Something in Morfin's words haunts him, and he wonders how many of the men are feeling poorly. He gets a disturbing vision of them all, blind men leading blind men, walking in circles on the ice. Stuck, in this world, in this one life.

This life – this is it. This is all.

He feels claustrophobic, stuck in all this open space.


	27. September 1847

From an early age, Goodsir was taught the importance of listening, and that it encompasses so much more than simply hearing the words that are being spoken. Often, what is not said is just as important as what is said, and gestures and facial expressions matter greatly, too. Any silence speaks volumes, in that respect.

He does not understand the Netsilik language half as well as his mother tongue, but he is getting more skilled day by day. Both of the Esquimaux warmed up to him rather quickly, once the shaman started improving after being shot, although the man is still wary of the ships and the men.

Silna, younger and perhaps more curious, converses more openly – they talk about the weather, and the animals that one can find up here, and their respective tools, clothes, and so on. She tells him to great length of their myths and religion, and he listens patiently, only speaking when there are words that he does not understand. She, too, is patient, with him.

The igloo that they built a few months ago still stand, although it has been battered somewhat by large rounds of hail. Goodsir is fascinated by the fact that the ice can be both an adversary and provide a home, for these people, for everyone. Silna has a respect of the ice, of the natural world, which is rarely seen in Englishmen. He wants to record it, somehow, but journal entries or field notes do not do it justice.

Eventually, he asks her to sit for a Daguerreotype. It takes some convincing – he ends up showing her some of the portraits already done, one of Captain Fitzjames holding a blurry seal pup back in Greenland, and the one of Sir Franklin and his men outside the hunting blind, shortly before the man had been attacked by a bear.

They set up the equipment by the igloo, and Silna crouches on the snow in front of it. From beneath the cloth, he sees her, suspended upside down, a wary expression on her face.

Afterwards, they sit in the igloo and talk about family. Her mother is passed, unfortunately, but somewhere across King William Land, which is apparently an island, she has a group of friends.

“Do you miss them?” he asks, “When you are away, out here?”  
“Yes. But I will get to see them again.”  
“And have you a...” he pauses, not knowing the word for husband, “Have you someone that you are closer to?”  
“My father,”  
“No, I mean – like a friend, but closer – someone that you care deeply for?”  
“Like you and Collins?”

It is strange to hear it spoken in anther tongue and so openly, so freely, without any prejudice or malice behind the words, even if it is by coincidence almost.

“Well...”

He watches her nod and he wonders what she thinks of them, how she sees them and what she infers from that, from their interactions. He supposes he has talked to her about the other man a great deal, too.

“I have not.”

She does not expand on that, and Goodsir does not ask. Instead, he pulls out a square piece of chocolate from his pocket. She has come to like it, by now, although it has taken a few tries.

As they sit in silence, he contemplates how intrusive the expedition is. He had not properly thought of this, when he signed up, when they first left England – how forceful is is to even peacefully go someplace unknown and lay a claim on the land, on the nature. They have disrespected this place, somehow, from the beginning. Their ships got stuck because of the route chosen by Commander Franklin, Collins has told him as much – and so they are stuck here, still, because they did not have enough respect for the ice, they thought that they could bend it to their will and their power. Franklin's death was the same – he thought himself invincible with a weapon, against the raw power of the bears up here. Goodsir could have told him, had the other man asked, or, even failing asking, Goodsir would have told him any way, had the man seemed capable of properly listening to others and carefully considering his decisions.

But whatever they are doing did not stop with Commander Franklin – and it is perhaps unfair to lay all the blame on him, when they are still here, still stuck in that intruding role, like the blade of a knife stuck to the bone of a wild animal.

Sometimes, Goodsir wants to run – leave Erebus and never come back – but there is nowhere to run to.

He does wonder why they are not planning to leave this place by foot – all of them. To ask the Esquimaux for help, for directions, to admit the final defeat in this landscape of white, and abandon the ships for home.

Eventually, their food supplies will run out, if the ice does not break up.

He has started asking Silna for advice on how to survive out there in the open, crystal land. He has even asked her to describe to him how to catch a seal – although it is the kind of skill that takes years of practice. She contributes, gladly, where she can.

Sometimes, he catch her looking at him, her expression slightly worried or pained, as if she already knows something that he does not – how all of this will eventually end, perhaps. He is thankful that she does not tell him.

And he is taken over by his own desire to make things better, to explain that this is not all there is to him, to all of them – that all this fear and desperation out here does not truly represent them, nor does the cruelty that they exhibit here. They are good people, too. But it is a selfish thought, he knows – the notion that they are not always like this will hold little value to Silna or anyone else to whom they do not actually display that more accommodating behaviour.

He walks back from the igloo to Erebus in the dark-blueish light, stars twinkling overhead and the snow twinkling beneath and around him. The ships shine out in the dark, lights on inside, looking almost welcoming when viewed from afar.

He thinks of the way a moth is attracted to a flame, seeking out the light in the dark of night, the danger of that attraction, how easily it is to be burned.

He thinks of a lighthouse, marking dangerous coastlines or other hazardous elements, warning sailors to stay away – stay far away.

And he wants to run.

Instinct tells him to.


	28. August 1850

Collins remembers well that odd sensation of being almost entirely blinded by ice, the sharp whiteness of it all, eyes burning, and now, as he walks the streets of Edinburgh, the sensation returns to him. The cobbled streets are bathed in the late summer sun so that he cannot fully take in his surroundings, but he knows where he is – has already learned the cobweb of the streets well enough to navigate them with ease.

It has been an unusually hot summer. It still is – and how strange is that, after years in such cold. He had forgotten how intruding the heat can be, how desperate it can make a man, for shadow, for water, anything cold.

It is early evening, but the warmth lingers.

The trees and bushes lining their property have grown wild, by now, a greenery of leaves and flowers, so that he has to duck down slightly, as he enters in through the gate. In the shade, cast by the poplars on either side, it is slightly cooler, more bearable. For a moment, he stays there, under the pretence of cooling off – but if he is being honest, what he is really doing is simply taking it all in.

This short path, lined in poplars, leads to their house – two stories of red brick under a slate roof, tall windows letting in the light, and a balcony on the back of the house offering views across the sea.

Their home.

He realises that a certain amount of sheer luck and circumstance is needed in life – neither skill nor willpower is enough to have brought him to where he is today.

Inside, once showered and less sweaty, he pulls the mattress from the spare bedroom out onto the balcony, hopeful that the weather will not suddenly change. He picks up glasses and a bottle of white wine, a box of chocolates that have hopefully not all melted, and puts it there, too, on the balcony floor. He even goes to pick a few strawberries in their garden.

Once it is all done, he is unsure what to do with himself, excited, anxious almost, waiting for Goodsir to return home.

And when Goodsir arrives, Collins is so flustered that he cannot get the words out properly, and he ends up simply nodding, saying nothing, as Goodsir complains of the heat, strips off his clothes and goes to take a shower.

It is getting dark outside, by now, and perhaps that is better somehow.

Goodsir emerges again, curls bouncing and damp, and looks curiously at Collins.

“What – what is it?”  
“It... I...”

The other man walks to him, then, looking slightly concerned, taking his hand.

“Remember that old fellow I spoke to at the museum's charity dinner last month?”  
“Yes.”  
“Well, he asked me to come see him at Trinity House. I went today. He offered me a position there – teaching navigation, nautical training. I... I said yes.”  
“Henry, that is wonderful! Congratulations. I am so very proud of you.”  
“It is a better income than minding a lighthouse every now and then.”  
“Certainly. And much more stimulating for the mind, I should say.”  
“Yes.”

Goodsir puts his arms around his neck, pulls him in close until their foreheads touch.

“Why were you so nervous telling me?”  
“Because it means so much. It is...difficult to think that all this is real – difficult to believe that the illusion won't shatter soon. That it is not all some grand, shared delusion, that we are not still stuck up there, all frozen in the ice.”

Goodsir kisses him.

“This _is_ real,” he says.

Later, they lie side by side on the mattress as they stare up into the night sky, sipping wine and eating the strawberries and chocolate. He points out constellations to Goodsir, although they can barely see them from this far away, but they know them already, having watched the same stretch of stars from Erebus once.

“We should get a telescope.”  
“I still have my spyglass somewhere.”

The sea breeze rustles the leaves of the surrounding trees. Goodsir turns to him, and Collins watches the other man examine his face, tracing a finger across his forehead, down to the tip of his nose, onto his right cheekbone – it reminds him of Goodsir examining the sea creatures that were brought aboard Erebus during their expedition.

“What are you thinking of?” he asks, curious.

It takes a while for Goodsir to answer, softly, “Within one day of knowing you, I knew the secrets of the sea.”

The sentiment makes Collins smile and he feels a swell of love.

“I think you are exaggerating a bit.”  
“No, I am not.”

Goodsir is still looking at him in wonder, as if only Collins exists, as if there is nothing else. Collins leans in, kisses him. Their breath is one and the same, he cannot help but think. What strange pull, between them, stronger than any sea current, any lock of ice – what strange thing, seeing and being seen, knowing and being known.

“I would like to make love to you, here, under the stars.”  
“You may.”

And so they do make love there, out in the open, in the dark, in the sparse star light.

“This is real,” he whispers to Goodsir beneath him, as if they are sharing some great secret between them, “This is real.”

Goodsir looks him in the eyes and nods and pulls him closer until all fears disappear and there is only certainty.

It is beautiful.


	29. June 1849

They reach the south-western point of Somerset Island tired and worn out. Blanky is feverish, but holding on. Jopson already looks like a ghost.

Even the fresh seal meat cannot sustain them forever. They all know it, without ever speaking it aloud.

Goodsir still thinks that they made the right choice, going north. It requires outside intervention, a rescue party, but for all the hope he has lost along the way, reluctantly shedding it across the miles behind him, he still retains the hope that help will come.

At night, he has taken to imagining them returning home. He does not think of any heroic welcoming there, has no proper solution as to how they actually get back. Instead, he thinks of them already in Edinburgh – Collins and him – Goodsir showing the other man the city, its beautiful buildings and gardens, all of its secrets. He thinks of taking Collins home to meet his family, even though he knows that it will be impossible to do so in the context that he desires. He makes up all these scenes, stories, false memories of the future, allows them in his mind what they cannot have in reality.

He thinks of the two of them, making it out of here. He wonders what it would possibly be like if they survive this, if anyone comes to their rescue.

He thinks of the two of them, making a life together. It is like some beautiful, distant dream – visible on the horizon and yet out of his grasp.

Allowed all of this life – how does one spend it best?

When Sir James Ross and Sir Francis McClintock reach them, the world changes slightly, as if some greater part of the universe recognises the importance of the moment and resets.

Goodsir feels it happening – a chill runs through him, like if someone has opened a door into whichever room he has been stuck in, letting in the cold, all the way into his bones. Then it passes, as quickly as it arrived, and an unfamiliar peace spreads in him as he watches Sir James Ross embrace Captain Crozier, watches Captain Fitzjames fall to his knees, watches Little grasp Jopson's shoulder tightly.

He catches Collins' eyes from across the group of men, and the other man looks at him in wonder. It feels like seeing one another for the first time.

There is love there, he thinks, like there is love anywhere, even in this cold climate.

It takes them twenty days to reach HMS Investigator and HMS Enterprise. And for all that has happened on this expedition, those twenty long days may be the hardest – so close to being safe, and yet so far away still.

They slowly increase their intake of food – it has to be done gradually so as to avoid any sickness of re-feeding. Slowly, Jopson's face has more colour to it. Captain Fitzjames' wounds close up. Blanky makes it to the ships, then has to have his leg surgically revised, but there are skilled surgeons aboard – including Goodsir's own brother, Robert, who has joined to look for them.

A few days before they expect to come into harbour in England, Robert finds him on the upper deck. It is quite windy, but Goodsir does not mind, he is used to it by now – it catches his hair, pulls at the curls, lifting them up into the hair. He has shaved off his beard, and the whiskers, and it is strangely comforting to feel the blow of air on his face.

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking it all in.

“Feeling better?”  
“Yes. Day by day.”  
“What will happen to the others? Do you think they will have made it?”  
“I don't know. We were lucky,” he pauses briefly, “I wonder how far they have gone, by now. Word has been sent to the Admiralty of their trajectory, of course. But I have my fears.”  
“I was so worried, Harry. Everyone was.”  
“I know – I... I was worried, too.”  
“Please never go on one of these infernal expeditions again.”  
“I don't plan to. But – you have to remember, and even though I suppose this will be the legacy of the entire voyage – it was not all bad.”  
“No? You have stories to tell?”  
“Some.”

Goodsir looks to the bow of the ship, where Collins is standing, looking out at something through a spyglass. He is handsome, wind blowing in his hair, looking out across the open sea.

“Go to him,” Robert says.  
“Do you not want to join, too?”  
“I get the feeling that the two of you would rather be alone together.”  
“Nonsense.”  
“Harry – I have spent the last fortnight with you aboard this ship. I know you.”  
“Robert, come on...”  
“No, no – I have seen the way you look at one another.”

Goodsir can feel himself blushing. He wishes, then, that he still had the beard, or the whiskers, so that it might not be so readily evident on his face.

“Oh! So I am correct in my assumptions! Does that mean that my brother is finally a virgin no more?”  
“Keep your mouth shut.”  
“I cannot wait to tell John about this. Can you imagine the look on his face?”  
“Please do not do so – just... _do not_.”

Robert looks elated. He has always fed off this strange energy, always been a bit different, his own person. Goodsir remembers visiting him in London, before the expedition set off, and he had been horrified at the place in which Robert had lived, at the other people there.

“So, tell me,” Robert says now, glee shining in his eyes, and Goodsir already dreads whatever is coming, “Do you take it in the ar-”  
“Afternoon! Yes, I take it in the afternoon, the medication, just as you prescribed!” Goodsir interrupts, just as Captain Fitzjames walks by, looking curiously towards them. Goodsir sends a quick smile in Fitzjames' direction, then anxiously watches the man walks away, before returning to his brother.  
“And no, Robert – good Lord...”  
“Why not?”  
“I do not wish to discuss this with you. It is none of your business. Why are you even asking me this?”  
“You know – back in London there was this one girl, who-”  
“Stop!” Goodsir holds up his hand, “I can already tell that I do not want to know the rest of that story.”  
“But I am just trying to be a good, supportive brother.”

Goodsir laughs.

“I missed you terribly, you know that, don't you?”  
“Yes. I missed you, too. I am glad that you came looking for me. Impressed by it.”  
“Yes, yes, yes. Now go to him. I will try to see if Fitzy is available for a talk.”  
“Fitzy? Please never call him that.”  
“Nonsense.”

The waves of the sea clash hard against the ship, rocking it in steep motions. Goodsir appreciates the movement, though. He walks to the bow, to Collins, where they have stood on Erebus many times before throughout the years.

Four years has it been, since they set out.

A lifetime, in many ways.

He turns thirty, this year. Collins turned thirty-one, out there on the ice, a few months back. There was no celebration.

The man looks to him as he approaches, face open and unworried. He makes as if to say something, then bites his lip instead.

Goodsir steps close to him, until, again, everything else but Collins disappears – the brushing sound of the waves, the rush of the wind, the faint chatter of the other men on the upper deck all mute away so that there is only them, Goodsir and Collins, here or anywhere. Together.

“Allowed all of this life,” Goodsir asks, “How does one spend it best?”  
“With you,” says Collins.


End file.
